




















A 


0 N 0 - ^ 


o . c,^ o /==i 

•t 

. . 0 » \ 


> 

.c/V*^'”'ys^* 'JV 

\ . _ z r 

PI 

^ '\ 


^ X,-' '^K yC^' V 

J' •X'^ aV '’^’ ’ *» 


V 

^0 


® H "T*/ ^ 

✓ <f o * rU kr ^'Z^tA^ O V \ 

' / . V »..>•' ^o’ ,,.,'°,, »-,.o^ 

h ^ -i^ ^ -ffli®!, ^ ^v. \t- 


V> .^v 

IW*’ ' 

^ ^ -A» ' 

« l^ 

* * 0 q. * 

\ y^> ^ 


N C 


J»r * "J 

' ‘ <^^^o'“' ' * jy^c^^ '■: * 

M-nl/A'Iz^ ■f> _. < '-j^ j. 

'^A K 

" W^2Ai.' ^ ^ \J ^ - \J55i<n *» 


" ’°'\' ”*“’ v>'*’'>.'‘ *“'■ 

> r* jp ^ 

k. . ^. ■t. 


>\«^’ aO^ '"°A* 




'X a\- ^ AWMV/l ® 

t/' <^v OQ i 


‘'V. V , 16- ' 



.A ,4? ^ .^1^ * .. 


C. A 



s -7:^. 

o ■» „’>«'- ^'%'' • ftT'* ^ 

‘ ^ " rs^'' r ^ \ > ^ ^ * 0 > A ' s %> 


’'Qa !< 



O^ sS’’ / 

? V “ 

'^' ‘- -^ jy '“•' 

o'^ <.° ‘ *-% .■^' ^ 

'P^-, ^ ^ ^ '' r -T 


» « * '^'U 

% 








i 


\i • 


<1 














^ountess Obernau 

after the german 

By Julien Gordon, 

Author of “ A Diplomat’s Diary,” etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BY JAMES FAGAN. 



THE POPULAR SERIES. 


Paper Covers. Priee, 25 Cents. 


1— THE OETCAST OF IMIEAA. A Companion Story to “ The 

(rimiuaker of Moscow.” By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

2— KOIaIaO of I%OIt]fIATM> V. By tSylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

2— MAirr SATFEMaFF AiriOI^^jJ FME By William 

O. Stoddard. 

4— KIT CAKSOI^’S EAST TRAII.. By Leon Lewis. 

5— THE S€OE««E OF OAMASEES. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

(5— THE OKEAT KEl^TOI^ FEEH. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 

7- EEKE HAHHOJ^H THE HISEK. By Wm. Jtlenry Peck. 

8- THE CO.\SF IKATOR OF COROOTA. By Syl vanns ('obb, Jr. 

9- THE F4>UTE]>ES OF FOARAH. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

10— THE HiAlflONO SEEKER OF RRAXII.. By Leon Lewis. 

11— THE ROBRER COEATESS. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

12— BEE REBIO. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 

12— THE ROYAE OETEAW. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

14- THE BA.^'BIT OF SABACtfSE. By Svlvanus Cobb. Jr. 

15— ROBERICK OF KIEBARE. By Syfvanus Cobb, Jr. 

10— 'EHE SERF EOVERS OF SIBERIA. By Leon Lewis. 

17— K ARE THE EIOA. Bv Svlvanus Cobb, Jr. 

18— THE YOEMO CASTAWAYS. By Leon Lewis. 

19— THE CAEIFH OF BA01>A1>. By Sylv anus Cobb, Jr. 

20— THE SFECTRE’S SECRET. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

21— 'I’HE KYIOHT’S HOTTO. By Svlvanus Cobb, Jr. 

22— AEARH.%or THE TYRANT’S VAEI.T. By Mvanus Cobb, Jr. 
20— THE STOEEN A^AII.. By E. W^erner, and THE ENSlCiNEB 

AVICE. From the German. 

24- THE EXEF’E 'ITONER OF A^ExNTCE. By Prof. Wni. Henry Peck. 

25 - .fOSEPHlNE’S HEART. Translated by Mrs. 1). M. Lowrey from 

the German of Rein hold Ortmann. 

26- TiIE BEACK 'I'lOER. IW Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 

27- THESEES: HERO OF ATTICA. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

28- th E OENHAKER OF HOSCOAY. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

29 - FEORABEE’S EOYER. By Laura Jean Libbey. 

00— ION E. Bv Laura Jean Libbey. 

01— FARTEB AT THE A ETA R. By Laura Jean Libbey. 

02— 4^RIS rock. By Cant. May ne Reid. 

00— HAEO HORTON. By Major Alfred R. Calhoun. 

04— FARTEB BY FATE. By Laura Jean Libbey. 

05— ENBER A CI.OEB. Bv Jean Kate Ludlum. 

00— A HAB BETROTH A E. Bv Laura Jean Libbey. 

07- JOHN WINTHROF’S BEFEAT. By Jean Kate Ludlum. 

08- EABY KII.B ARE. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

09 - A EEAF IN THE BARK. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

40— THE BAIIAFF’S SCHEHE. Bv Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

41— THE STONE-CUTTER OF IASBON. Bv Wm. Henry Peck. 

42— THE OI.B lAA’E’S SHABOWS. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

40— REfiNITFB. By A Popular Southern Author. 

44— A EOVE HATCH. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. I 

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by ' 


ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York City. 


“The Wholesome Educator of Millions.” 


Semi-Centennial Volume 



For Fifty Years the Leading Illustrated National Family 
Weekly Paper of America. 

CONTRIBUTORS OF THE “LEDGER;” 


The following gives only a partial list of the distinguished writ- 
ers who will contribute to the Ledger during 1894 : 


Edward Everett Hale, 

Mrs. Ballington Booth, 
George Kennan, 

Mary Lowe Dickinson, 
Hjalmar H. Boyeson, 

Helen Campbell, 

John Habberton, 

Washington Gladden, D. D., 
Mrs. M. A. Kidder, 

Eben E. Rexford, 

Elizabeth Olmis, 

E. A. Robinson, 


Hon. James Bryce, 

Olive Thorne Miller, 

Mary Kyle Dallas, 

Mrs. N. S. Stowell, 
Theodore Roosevelt, 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, 
S. P. Cadman, 

Hon. Thomas Dunn English, 
E. Werner, 

Helen V. Greyson, 

Dr. Charles C. Abbott, 

Prof. Felix L. Oswald. 


A Four-Dollar Paper for Only TWO Dollars. 


Our Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and Fourth-of-July 
Numbers, with beautifully illuminated covers, will be sent with- 
out extra charge to all our subscribers. 

SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $2 A YEAR. 

Free Specimen Copies on Applicaiion. 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., New York. 


A New Novel by E. Werner. 


A Lover From Across the Sea. 

BY 

E. WERNER. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY 

MARY J. SAFFORD. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY VICTOR PERARD AND H. M. EATON. 

/ 


12mo. 300 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


E. Werner is the author of more popular novels than any 
other German writer. 'She has set the key for a good many of 
her sisters, who have made the German domestic love-story one 
of the most agreeable and familiar to American readers.' These 
stories are always pure, interesting and popular. “A Lover 
from Across the Sea ” is a fresh story, never before translated, 
and better adapted for republication here than any German novel 
which we can recall. It is one of the author’s shorter novels, and 
the volume is enlarged by the addition of another new story by 
E. Werner, entitled In the Hands of the Enemy,” of the same 
general character and equally interesting. The illustrations of 
these stories add very much to the value and beauty of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


COUNTESS OBERNAU. 





COUNTESS OBERNAU. 


y 


JfoDel. 









>) 






AFTER THE GERMAN 
BY 






JULIEN GORDON, 

Author of Diplomat s Diary f etc,, etc. 





3- 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAGAN. 




^OffQ 


' 4 ', 






APR 6 1834 




Of 


WA8H\«$^ 


NEW YORK: f Z i 2 L 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS. 




THE LEDGER LIBRARY: ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 106, 
APRIL 1, 1894. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 






\ 


COPYEIGHT, 1893, 

By the AMEEICAN woman PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


Copyright, 1894, 

By ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


(All rights reserved.) 



COUNTESS OBERNAU. 


CHAPTER 1. 

T here is no lovelier spot in northern Germany 
than the Terrace of Brtihl, at Dresden, in 
springtime. One emerald-green June day 
several young men sat facing the Baldin Pavilion, 
smoking cigars, sipping their ices and coffee and 
criticising or ridiculing the passers-by. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and conse- 
quently no elegant woman was to be seen. They 
were fearful of the sun’s heat, notwithstanding the 
cool shade of the trees. The more striking, there- 
fore, was the presence of one lady, evidently belong- 
ing to the higher ranks of society, sitting apart, on a 

[ 7 ] 


8 


Countess Obernau. 


bench, with her back to the Pavilion, unconscious 
of the young men’s gossip or of the noisy children 
who swarmed on the Terrace like ants. She sat 
unobserved, a too well known apparition to be 
interesting. She was hard at work sketching, and 
near by stood a man-servant, like a statue, holding 
her parasol, that no sunbeam or flicker should dis- 
turb her task. Her eyes glanced quickly from 
landscape to drawing, and her hand, fearless of tan, 
and freer for being ungloved, followed dexterously 
the bidding of her eyes. She was quite absorbed 
in her work. 

Lady Geraldine has left for Tepliz to-day ; that 
is my last news,” said a young man of the group. 

“ That is no news at all,” replied another. ‘‘ It 
was well understood long ago — ancient history.” 

But it was to be to-morrow.” 

No ; to-day.” 

beg your pardon, to-morrow.” 

“Well, she’s gone, at any rate,” said a third; 
“ and soon Dresden will have died out, and we must 
get off, too, for it is insupportable ; only unknown 
faces.” 

“ I rather like strange faces. One meets them en 
route to the baths, like birds of passage.” 

“Ah, strange faces— that is quite different; I 
like them too, and they are easily picked out. I 


Countess Obernau. 


9 


mean the nobodies, whose names, if repeated a hun- 
dred times, you cannot retain ; people who exact 
your salutation because you have elbowed them in 
some sa/on. Dresden is as full of these now as the 
night of specters.” 

“ I pity every one who is obliged to pass the sum- 
mer here.” 

“ Last night Count Mengen arrived. The am- 
bassador only waited for him, to start for the baths, 
and so he remained so/o soletti 

“ But he can ride everywhere, and solitude, after 
all, is amusing.” 

‘‘ Oh, most to be coveted ! And where do you go ?” 

It is uncertain. Here and there ; in the coun- 
try ; to friends; later to Tepliz. If Prince Clary 
would organize the races there, it would become 
more fashionable. The Viennese would send their 
horses. It is inconceivable that Clary does not 
recognize this advantage.” 

“ Do you know Count Mengen ?” 

''I saw him this morning at Feldern's, his old 
college friend’s ; but only for a moment ; we were 
introduced, and then he left for his ambassador’s.” 

“ Is he a good-looking fellow?” 

I think so. He must look fine on horseback.” 

“ But, dear Centaur, one can’t sit on one’s horse 
in a salon; and yet one must be presentable.” 


lO 


Countess Obernau. 


The Centaur, who knew nothing more flattering 
than this cognomen, said : 

“Who rides well presents himself everywhere 
and always well ; has ease, strength, prestige, free- 
dom — in short, all which a cavalier needs.” 

“ Also intellect ?” 

“ Likewise intellect. Horses are clever, shrewd, 
capricious beasts. They are like women ; they 
must learn to yield — to respond to the slightest 
command. It requires much intelligence and deep 
study and prompt decision, to win obedience.” 

“ Of horses or women ?” 

“ Both ! Familiarity with the former is, so to 
speak, the elementary schooling for understanding 
the latter.” 

“My dear Centaur, I congratulate your future 
wife.” 

“ There is time enough. I am still unsettled.” 

“ Here comes Feldern, with a stranger— probably 
this Mengen,” interrupted some one. 

“ So it is !” cried the Centaur. “ And I wager he is 
an excellent horseman.” 

By the side of the small, blonde, neat Feldern, 
with the white hand of a woman and the frank 
smile of a maiden of fourteen, walked a tall, slight 
man— straight, dark and firm as a fir-tree. Count 
Mengen was somewhat cold and distant in carriage 


Countess Obernau. 


1 1 


and manners, with a patrician indifference which in 
no sense savored of self-conscionsness. His eyes 
redeemed his person from over-much seriousness. 
They were full of light. He could undoubtedly 
unbend. 

Feldern made him acquainted with the young 
men. Some received him with curiosity, and some 
without interest, as an intruder into their coterie. 

Mario Mengen permitted them to continue their 
gossip, their smoking and yawning ; sat down with 
folded arms and looked out at the landscape. 

There is the Countess Obernau sketching,” said 
Feldem, suddenly. 

“Where, then, is Audlau?” asked one of the 
group. “ For nearly an hour she has been alone. I 
wonder he allows it.” 

“ That he supports it !” cried another. 

“ Well, well,” said Feldern, “ they are not soldered 
to one another.” 

“ Do not you believe, Feldern, that they are 
secretly married ?” 

“ No ; because they might be so openly, if they 
wished.” 

“ Who knows ; there may be some obstacle.” 

“ For example, the obstinate little head of the 
Countess Faustine herself, who, for the sake of 
being different from others, would suffer quietly a 


12 


Countess Obernau, 


thousand martyrdoms without confessing to herself 
that they were martyrdoms/’ 

“She has certainly individuality,” said Feld- 
ern. 

“One instance struck me,” replied the other: 
“ She wore the whole winter, to all soirees, nothing 
but white.” 

“To all soirees ? Why, she so rarely goes into the 
world !” 

“ That may be ; but when she did appear, she 
wore white always. At first it was very well to wear 
the same thing. In Italy there is a custom of dedi- 
cating children to the Madonna, and dressing them 
in her color for a year or more, according to the 
vow. I asked the countess if she had so bound her- 
self. ' No,’ she replied, ' but it is convenient/ Is 
that natural for a woman, I ask ?” 

In the meantime Faustine arose, gave her servant 
her sketching materials, and took her parasol. Then 
she stood nearly a minute at the balustrade of the 
terrace. She wore a very simple white percale dress 
-^no colored ribbon, no bow, no wrap, broke the 
harmonious impression produced by her graceful 
figure. A wide hat hid her hair— nearly her face. 
She turned slowly. One felt that the branches, 
which seemed only a roof for others, were a temple 
for her. She walked with the gait of a queen in 


Countess Obernati. 


13 


passing the gentlemen, whom she greeted with 
friendliness. 

“ Who is that lady ?” asked Count Mengen. 

“ No one less than Countess Obernau, of whom we 
were speaking.” 

A stranger ?” 

“ Yes ; residing here, however, for some years.” 

“ Married ?” 

“ Has been ” — Perhaps ” — “ No one knows ” — 

Widow ” — Unmarried ” — came from every side. 

“ You are joking,” said Mengen, bewildered. 

On our honor, what we say is truth.” 

“The truest and simplest answer,” said Feldern, 
“ is that Countess Obernau is a widow.” 

“ You know her ?” asked Mengen. 

“ Very well.” 

“ Is she attractive ? May I know her ? I suppose 
so many questions must be pardoned from a 
stranger,” he continued, laughing. 

About this lady ” — another taking up the sub- 
ject — “ one might ask two hundred questions, and 
every one would give a different answer, as there is 
a field for all manner of conjecture. But we can 
spare ourselves the trouble.” 

“ When are you to be presented , to the king, 
Count Mengen ?” asked some one. 

“ I think Sunday, when he arrives from Pillnitz.” 


H 


' Countess Obernau. 


“ Does the court at Vienna do much for society?'’ 

“ Very little. Society pays its homage, and is re- 
paid by two court balls.” 

“ Were the races good this year, and whose horse 
was the victor?” asked the Centaur. 

“ I think it was Lichtenstein's.” 

“ You are not certain ? I hope, Count Mengen, 
that you are a lover of horses ?” 

** Oh, yes,” said Mengen, bored, “ but not of talk- 
ing about them. As soon as I have my horses here, 
I intend to explore the country.” 

“ Count Mengen,” cried the Centaur, with over- 
flowing heart, “ I thought so the first moment I saw 
you ! I am delighted that my first impressions were 
correct.” 

All united in a laugh at the Centaur's keenness 
of penetration. Mengen arose. 

“ It is my minister’s dinner hour, and I am ex- 
pected,” he said. 

“ Now, Feldern,” they all cried, looking after the 
stranger’s retreating figure, “ tell us all about him !” 

Good heavens,” said Feldern, “there is nothing 
special to be told ! He was educated for and follows 
the career of diplomacy, like any one else, in the 
usual way. I don’t even know if he is rich. In 
Gottingen, sometimes he had money and sometimes 
not : but he always seemed to possess gold-mines 


Countess Obernau. 


15 


and despise them. Once a prince came and set the 
fashion of costly canes ; we all had to procure them. 
Mengen's funds being low, he had none. He said 
at the table : ‘ Bah, who wants to play the drum- 
major, and have a stick with a shining knob ?’ It 
seemed to us, then and there that we were all 
dubbed drum-majors. The superb canes disap- 
peared.” 

“We shall see if the secretary of legation will 
hold the supremacy here that he did in college.” 

“ He would like it.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Feldern. “ All he wants 
is an independent position and to be his own mas- 
ter.” 

“If he looks for advancement he must marry the 
daughter of the minister. There is no other way 
in our day.” 

“Ah, yes; discretion rules the world,” Feldern 
sighed. 

“ Too much is an impediment sometimes,” cried 
another. % 

“ I don’t think so,” replied Feldern. “ Discretion 
is the track on which society runs its carriage, with- 
out jars and without accident.” 

“ Ah, but there are large wheeled carriages which 
cannot be made to run in a narrow groove,” pro- 
tested some one. 


6 


Countess Obernau. 


Feldern yawned. The cigars were smoked ; the 
glasses emptied ; the conversation languished. 
Every one went his way — some to their siesta. 
****** 

In the home of Faustine silence reigned. It was 
situated near the promenade. No sound of car- 
riages, no stamping of horses, no cries of market- 
women reached it ; nothing to remind one of active 
life. The windows of the salon — long glass doors 
which led out to the balcony — were open and the 
jalousies closed, so that the bright light was excluded, 
not the air. 

On an ottoman sat Baron Audlau, inattentively 
fluttering the leaves of a book. Nothing in this 
world is more distressing than the expectation even 
of trifles. From the moment one begins to wait, 
notwithstanding all one’s breadth of vision, one 
becomes like the marksman, who sees and knows on 
the whole earth’s surface nothing but the small 
black point at the target center. Audlau was very 
impatient. 

“Why does she not come?” he asked himself. 
“Has anything happened to her? Why did I 
allow her to be out in this torrid heat ?” 

He arose restlessly, to go in search of her, when 
he heard her step on the stairs, and sprang to open 
the door for her. 




SHE WAS AHSORBEL> IN HER WORK. Hee Pitye 8, 


Countess Obernau. 


17 


The darkness became liglit as she entered. 
Faustine threw her hat on one table, her album on 
another, herself on a lounge, and said : 

“ Dear Max, that will make a pretty picture ; but 
I am tired — tired to death !” 

‘‘ Why do you work so hard ? Must the picture 
be illumined by such an ardent sunshine ?" 

“ Quite necessary !” she said. “ And now I have 
already rested ; and to-night you must take me over 
to Neustadt ! I want to impress upon my mind the 
effect of the moon upon the river and churches. 
That will be the companion picture.” 

“ Here is a letter for you,” said Audlau, and took 
one from the desk. “ I should judge, by the crest, 
from your brother-in-law.” 

“ Ah !” said Faustine. 

‘ Dear Sister,’ she read, ‘ we see from your letter of the 24th 
that you will give us the pleasure of your company in the course 
of the month of June. As our youngest boy is to be baptized in 
our church at Oberwaldorf, we beg you to be his godmother. 
The other sponsors will be the Baroness von Feldkirch 7 iee 
Hagen, of Muhlkof, and my brother Clemens, who is with us, 
having completed his course at Wurtsberg. Our children are 
all well and happy, for which we are grateful. My dear wife is 
also well, for which God be thanked. She sends loving messages. 
Your affectionate brother and obedient servant, 

“‘Karl von Waldorf.’” 

‘‘Very well,” said Faustine; “two days sooner 
or later can make no difference to you. Let us 


Cotmtess Obernau. 


i8 


travel the day after to-morrow as far as Coburg 
together ; then you to Kissengen, I to Oberwaldorf, 
and in the beginning of July perhaps we may meet 
in Belgium.” 

Audlau made no comment. He was content with 
whatever pleased her ; and as she generally cared 
for nothing and no one in the world except for 
himself, one cannot but accord him infinite credit 
for this contentment, men in general being the 
most exacting where the most considered. 

“ It will only be from four to five weeks that we 
shall not see each other,” said Faustine ; “ but Max, 
I am sad as if it were so many years. One cannot 
calculate by the length of time or the breadth of 
distance. During these days in which I neither 
see nor hear from you, I may die as well as if for- 
ever apart. Is the desire to meet again, do you 
think, an omen of meeting ?” 

“ Certainly, Faustine ! Nothing can separate us 
but our own wills.” 

“ Oh, yes,” she said, with sadness. 

“ Yes,” cried he vehemently. Yes, if you be- 
lieve this we are already parted.” 

“ Death,” she said, “waits on no man’s pleasure. 
It takes its own time.” 

“ Oh, death, Faustine !— You will not die. And 
if I die !— ” 


Countess Obernau. 


19 


“I will come to you. You are right, Max; that 
is no death, and no separation !” 

She had seated herself near him on the ottoman, 
and laid her soft, fresh, blooming cheek against 
his shoulder, and her clasped fingers in his left 
hand. He touched her forehead gently with his 
lips, and looked at her with an ineffable expression 
of tenderness, devotion and pleasure. 

He had a face with clear-cut features, with lines 
of strong passion and of earnest thought. When 
his blue eyes fell on Faustine their gravity was 
dispelled as none would have believed possible, 
for his dark heavy eyebrows and black hair, which 
fell somewhat low upon his forehead, gave him an 
aspect of unusual severity. It was only Faustine 
who had seen him smile with his inner delight. 
For her he was everything that she needed always 
— father and friend, teacher and lover. Smiling or 
warning, censuring or chaffing, anxious or loving, 
she leaned upon him as upon her visible destiny. 
Her vagrant fancies were kept in bounds by his 
cool judgment; her nervous sensitiveness by his 
calm. Sometimes she felt herself frightened under 
the influence of superiority which such characters 
always possess over those who are impulsive. 

“Oriental slaves, as a sign of their servitude, 
wear on their wrists a little gold chain, which looks 


20 


Countess Obernau. 


like an ornament. So your love is an ornament, 
but still a chain,” she would say. 

“ Which you require, to prevent you from flutter- 
ing to the four winds,” Audlau would reply. 

“ And I don’t deserve to be better treated,” she 
would say, “because I have a real slave’s nature, 
and love there the most where I am the most tyran- 
nized over. I could never appreciate a love that 
was not exacting. I don’t understand being willing 
and satisfied that the beloved one should have 
pleasures unshared and walk in paths where one 
cannot follow. I think love is naturally selfish, 
and if one tries to elevate it too much, it ceases to 
be love at all. It is lost. Pray, what remains to 
indifference? Love must be exclusive.” 

If Faustine did not dispute Audlau’s wisdom 
often, but yielded to his stronger opinions, it was 
because she knew herself to be governed by moods, 
caprices and imagination ; dangerous guides even 
to the purest natures. Faustine possessed such a 
nature, although there were those who judged her 
to be unstable. 

“ If I could only fathom duty,” she often said, “ I 
would so willingly make it my law ; but every per- 
son has his own principles, and some such very odd 
ones. One says : ‘ I rise every morning at six — that 
is my principle.’ Another : ‘ I educate my children 


Co7intess Obernau. 


21 


by the rod — that is my principle.’ A third : ‘ I let 
the world talk as it pleases ; I don’t trouble myself, 
but do as I like — that is my principle.’ With the 
latter I am certainly quite in sympathy ; only I 
don’t entirely understand why such a natural course 
of thought and action should be dignified with the 
pompous word ‘ principle.’ ” 

“ Principles are not intended to run counter to 
nature,” said Audlau. 

They make people hard and unbending !” cried 
Faustine. 

Where they are wanting, there is lightness,” 
said Audlau, smilingly. 

‘‘ If I make up my mind to walk to a certain spot, 
why not avoid the dust and stones of the chauss^e^ 
and keep to the fields to reach my destination ? I 
come there more agreeably.” 

“ Because you get your pretty feet wet in the dew, 
and take a cold ; or a broad ditch stops your way, 
and you must return ; or a butterfly entices you to 
wander ; or you arrive one minute late, and that one 
is too late.” 

I have one principle,” said F'austine seriously. 

And that is ?” 

“ Not to dispute with you, as I am always worsted, 
which is very humiliating.” 



CHAPTER 11. 

People had always found Faustine’s charm a diffi- 
cult one to define. 

It was like the soft, downy bloom upon freshly 
plucked fruits. This is a breath — a fragrance — 
nothing else ; but when the fruit has stood in a 
room twelve hours this lovely nothing has vanished, 
and once missed it is understood. 

Notwithstanding the disillusions and discourage- 
ments of bitter experience, Faustine, in soul, in 
body, in mind, had remained young and fresh as if 
she had never suffered. She was not easily influ- 
enced. She looked neither to the right nor to the 
left where others walked. She went untroubled on 
her own way. This gave her assurance. She never 
wandered hither and thither in quest of love and 
friendship. She was quite content in herself. But 
if any one met her and gave her his hand, she 
[22] 




Cotintess Obernau. 


23 


could give hers in return — heartily and with warmth. 
Those who did not so meet her half way — those 
from whom she could draw no support she would 
allow to pass, unheeding, careless, as one might let 
fall a withered flower — not throwing it away, but 
simply letting it drop from one’s palm. 

Everything is easy enough to genius,” she would 
say ; “ but we who are not geniuses must help our- 
selves.” 

She did not try to win or lead people much into 
her own plans ; probably because it would have 
been difficult for her to plan anything except a 
journey or a walk ; people served her only as studies 
or as teachers. 

“ One bird sings, the other catches gnats, and 
everything has its nature,” she would say. And 
every nature was to her interesting ; sometimes, 
however, only for a few minutes. 

“ Is that my fault ?” she would reply to Audlau’s 
reproaches that she was so easily disgusted, and 
was yawning to-day, where yesterday she applauded. 
“ I have never found weariness with my God or my 
love.” 

Women generally liked Faustine. She entered 
into no positive rivalry with them. She never 
gossiped about them, and she never grudged them 
their triumphs, their beautiful dresses or their 


24 


Countess Obernau. 


lovers. If she threw the loveliest into shade, they 
did not always suspect it. The beautiful ones said : 
“ She is very clever ; but beautiful she is not.” The 
clever said : “ She has not much understanding, but 
she is fascinating.” None compared themselves 
with her, any more than cultivated plants would 
with an Alpine flower. 

Ordinary men found little pleasure in Faustine’s 
society. Such do not easily pardon a woman who 
makes them feel themselves insignificant and un- 
important. She was too impatient of the nonsense 
which makes the point de depart of their conversa- 
tion with women, and she had little indulgence for 
tediousness. Ennui painted itself so distinctly on 
her transparent face, that it would have been more 
than audacious to pursue what produced such un- 
flattering effects ; consequently many men had 
nothing to say to her. This is one reason why 
her own sex sometimes forgive to a woman her 
superiority. She pleased elderly people better than 
the young ; first, because she was more affable with 
them, and then she respected age, and liked to feel 
herself in less danger of disturbing enthusiasms. 

Without great wealth, ^clat or intrigue, she was 
accepted through the power of her graceful per- 
sonality, and the constant devotion to her of Baron 
Audlau was looked upon with indulgence. There 


Countess Obernau. 


25 


were those, indeed, who had said that there exi'^'^.ed 
a secret marriage. But this was a mere rumor, re- 
pudiated by her friends. 

Faustine and her sister AdMe, early left orphans, 
and quite poor, were educated by a sister of their 
dead father. She paid their pension at school, and 
gave herself no further anxiety concerning them 
until they were grown up ; then she took them to 
her own house, and set about providing them with 
husbands — -less through interest for the maidens 
than because she did not like her own somewhat 
faded beauty cast into the shade by their freshness. 
Two young men who visited at her house seemed 
such desirable nephews that she decided they must 
become such. Count Obernau, a wild young officer, 
who had no ideas beyond his horse, his wine and 
his pipe ; Karl von Waldorf, a young land-owner, 
strong and stalwart, with no manners, but with a 
certain charm of honor and bravery. Waldorf was 
not rich, but Obernau had large wealth. 

“ He is such a very solid man,’' the aunt would say 
of Waldorf to Adele. Obernau is a bit wild and a 
spendthrift," she would say to Faustine ; '‘but you 
will euide him to make better use of his fort- 
une.» 

Ad^e, practical from childhood, saw no sweeter 

future than to have her own home and be busy from 


26 


Cotintess Obernau. 


morning till night in housekeeping duties. A man 
must necessarily place her in this Eldorado. 

The aunt entertained Waldorf with Adze’s re- 
markable capabilities. 

“ She must be a first-rate girl,” he would say to 
himself. 

‘‘ Do you like cherries ?” he asked her one day as 
they sat under a tree eating the ripe fruit. 

“ Very much indeed,” replied Adele. 

In Oberwaldorf there are excellent ones,” re- 
plied Waldorf. 

“ So my aunt tells me.” 

“ Really, now, would you like to taste them?” 

“There are good ones here,” answered Adele 
evasively. 

“Come and eat those at Oberwaldorf, fraulein ; 
and if you like them well enough, remain there as 
my cJidtelaine^ 

So, half in joke, half in earnest, Adele was won. 

“ Are you then happy, dear little Ad^le ?” asked 
Faustine as she fastened the orange-blossoms in her 
sister’s hair the morning of her marriage. 

“ Oh, very !” cried Ad^le, clasping her hands. 

“ And about what the most?” 

“ Oh, about everything ; but especially that I am 
to have a house of my own.” 

It will be a trouble.” 


Countess Obernaii. 


27 


“ But a greater pleasure ; and then — I can leave 
my aunt.” 

''That is certainly good fortune,” said Faustine. 

" And I shall be a married woman ; and then, of 
course, most of all, that Waldorf is to be my hus- 
band.” 

" Notwithstanding that he wakes the walls when 
he laughs and leaves a red mark where he kisses ?” 

" A red mark !” cried AdMe, shocked, and hasten- 
ing to the mirror. 

As she found no mar, however, on the beauty of 
her blooming complexion, she sat down consoled. 

" It passes — Ini.” 

Waldorf and Ad^le were and remained a happy 
couple in their own fashion. 

"Do you know your brother-in-law’s brother?” 
asked Audlau of Faustine. 

" Young Clemens ? Yes ; years ago I saw him at 
Waldorf — a boy at that time, already as big as a 
giant ; but such a child that I am still inclined to 
call him ‘little Clemens.’ I am glad he will be 
there ; he may have grown a little more civilized ; 
perhaps very agreeable ; and that sort of thing is 
always useful, particularly in such a dull place.” 

" If you think so, you need not say it. Ini,” said 
Audlau, piqued. 

"But I am really delighted that I am to meet 


28 


Cotintess Obernau. 


Clemens there. And give me the pleasure,” she 
continued, “of being a trifle jealous. You have 
now an excellent opportunity. I should like to con- 
template you in that attitude and see how I would 
conduct myself.” 

“ You know, Faustine, there can be no question of 
jealousy with me, because I admit of no rival. A 
thing on which another has laid his hands he may 
take.” 

“ I know you are a hard man.” 

“ But not to you.” 

“ Oh, but yes, to me. You are like a rock to which 
I cling — a poor little growth. The rock remains 
unchanged, and I don’t even know if he likes it.” 

In saying this her eyes were brimming with tears. 

“ You wound me. Ini,” said Audlau, with profound 
tenderness. “You know so well that you are my 
only happiness, that you trifle with' me. It would 
be just as childish for you to doubt me as for me to 
repeat it to you every moment.” 

“ Doubt would certainly give me cause for 
thought,” said the young woman, dreamily. 

“ And what kind of thought — tormenting or 
pleasant?” he said teasingly. 

“ I would seem to myself like the eiderduck.” 

“That is not a very flattering comparison,” 
laughed he. 


Countess Obernati. 


29 


‘‘ No, not for men ; for he plucks his own feathers 
to warm the eggs of chalk which are put into his 
nest ; men rob his nest of the white down to make 
soft cushions for themselves, and untiringly the 
poor bird plucks himself bare for those eggs which 
he cannot warm.” 

‘‘And what resemblance?” asked Audlau, some- 
what surprised. 

“ What I have of loving tenderness in my heart 
I cast without thought before you, happy enough 
that you accept it. What else should I do with it? 
But you — you take the soft white down expressly 
that I may tell you over and over again, in some 
new fashion, how I love you.” 

“ If you believe that of me, punish me, and think 
of no new ways.” 

“ I must,” she said. 

“ You know, Faustine, we cannot change our na- 
tures. You must breathe out the fullness, the glow, 
the splendor of yours in word and expression. I 
have no eloquence, but must worship you silently. 
Do you call that a want of sympathy and of 
love ?” 

“ No, no, I already told you. Max, I do not allow 
these thoughts to take shape.” 

“ It would, indeed, be a pity,” he said earnestly, 
“ that your clear and shining soul should be dark- 


30 


Countess Obernau. 


ened by doubt and torment. Thou art a child of 
the light, my Ini.” 

“ The children of the world are wiser than the 
children of light, the Bible says.” 

“ It did not occur to me to quote your wisdom 
just now,” said Audlau, laughing. 

You are my wisdom ; I want none of my own,” 
she answered, and pressed her forehead against his 
shoulder. Her hair fell gracefully over her face ; 
the slight white form rested peacefully in his arms. 

These two people lived in the world as if upon a 
rock rising for them in the middle of the sea. If 
Faustine sometimes complained of Audlau’s reserve, 
it. was as the tone of pain in the nightingale’s song, 
in whose complaint there lurks an ineffable longing. 
Faustine had one of those souls of fire which in 
every moment of life craves to have and drain the 
nectar goblet of joy, without stint and without 
satiety. If Audlau was not of the same tempera- 
ment, yet he could at least always reach the height 
of her sentiment. 

On this evening, as she walked to the Neustadt 
upon his arm, to study the moonlight upon the 
water, she stopped on the bridge and spoke to him : 

“ Max, I must remember that song of incantation 
of the old Thessalian conjurers which could bring 
the moon down to the earth. It has secrets that I 


Countess Obernau. 


31 


would like to fathom. It touches one as coldly as 
the finger of death.” 

“ Leave the moon in its sphere and draw your 
shawl around you, Ini.” 

“ And I think if I had it very near me — as it were, 
face to face — its light would be less corpse-like. Its 
beauty makes one regret its coldness, which is surely 
a great fault.” 

Especially here, on the bridge, draw up your 
shawl ; the air blows cold over the Elbe.” 

“ I will, dear Max. How I would like to know if 
stars have a real and enigmatical influence upon our 
destinies, and if the star that shone upon our birth 
remains our friend and stays with us ?” 

Astrologers gave themselves trouble enough to 
discover that in old times ; but the sharp analysis 
and material industries of our day have dissipated 
all these misty follies. To me it seems healthier to 
believe that we ourselves solve and influence our 
own destinies.” 

“ It may be a mistake, and yet I always fancied 
that the sun takes an interest in me, because I was 
born in his day of majesty, the twenty-second of 
June. Life is only a joy to me when the sun shines. 
In summer I always imagine no unhappiness, no 
evil can come to me. The sun smiles upon me. Is 
he not the eye of God? Oh, Max, I do right to love 


32 


Countess Ober^iau, 


the heavenly sun who prepare pleasures for us like 
a good mother !” 

“ I told you already to-day you were a child of 
the light.” 

“ Ah ! But of the storm, Max, too ; for in the 
tempest, between the thunder and the lightning, 
was I born. That is why storms cannot harm me. 
They break over my head ; they sweep over my 
hair and my dress ; I fold my arms crosswise on my 
breast, and bow my head, and let them play. I 
always seem to hear in them the voice of the 
Eternal, and even the thunder never frightens me. 
Really, I have not the smallest physical terror when 
it rolls on the high mountains. I imagine the great 
spirits are coming down from their homes to tread 
our poor little earth with resounding feet, as an old 
warrior in armor a shepherd’s hut. And oh, the 
lightnings ! They are made for me ! They kiss 
and clasp me ! They are my girdle and my crown 
and my lance. Oh, the lightning has much to say 
to me ! It can neither kill nor blind me ; for when I 
first opened my eyes, I saw it and did not die or lose 
my sight. I understand all these things, but I do 
not understand the moon.” 

“But I do. Ini. For it speaks a very unpoetical 
tongue which is very clear. Its cold rays are to 
guide people to hurry home in the evening, and not 


Countess Obernau. 


33 


to linger on the Elbe bridge, where little goblins 
tumble about and breathe their icy breath upon us. 
They hurt you, and you do not even suspect their 
presence. I must keep watch for you.” 

“ Oh, you are good !” she said, and seized his 
hand. 

He took her to her house and then sought his 
own. 




CHAPTER III. 

Two days later Mengen was saying to Feldern on 
the Terrace : 

“ By the by, you were to introduce me to the 
beautiful white statue, whom I saw drawing here 
yesterday. Countess — What is her name ?” 

“ Obernau. Oh, she ’s no statue ! Unfortunately 
she left this morning for several months,” replied 
Feldern. 

“ What a pity ! Some people are so interesting 
that one would climb mountains to see them once 
thoroughly, look in their faces ; and this done, one 
never forgets them.” 

“Your ambassador, I hear, will bring his wife 
and daughter from the baths. Is the young girl 
pretty ?” 

“ Very pretty, judging from her portrait ; but too 
young to make any impression.” 

“ And the mother?” 

[ 34 ] 



Countess Obernau. 


35 


“ Not young enough.” 

Diplomatic life must be very pleasant. It seems 
the key to every circle ; to finding a home every- 
where, yet has neither ties nor cares.” 

“ I see no advantage to our career, except that 
our chief can spy our every action. I am sick to 
death of the whole thing ! If Csesar had not been 
celebrated through his life and death, he would 
have been so through his mot with regard to being 
first.” 

“At least, you have great chances of advance- 
ment, and are not cooped up in some wretched 
village, but are sent to large cities.” 

“ You are engaged to be married, I have heard,” 
said Mengen. 

“ I have been — for four years.” 

“What patience, my dear Feldern ! And does 
your fiancee live here ?” 

“ In the neighborhood, in the country. You will 
know her.” 

“ I, too, would like to marry.” 

“ And are you engaged ?” 

“ No,” said Mario, laughing ; “ and certainly not 
for four years. No woman has yet inspired me with 
the desire ; but sometimes in the superficial whirl 
of things, I feel I should like a place of repose. 
Would like to prove if there really is any other hap- 


3 ^ 


Countess Obernmi. 


piness than that derived from ambition and vanity ; 
anything that satisfies, even for a moment. Of 
course, one wants a lasting and unswerving happi- 
ness ; and this a woman ought to give, but I have 
not yet seen her.” 

You make large demands.” 

“ None at all ; I only expect that we should 
accord.” 

“ A modest aspiration,” said Feldern, laughing. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Oberwaldorf was all excitement. A christening 
and a week of guests was a sensation for a quiet 
house. To-day Faustine was expected. To-morrow 
the baptism was to take place. 

Ad^le, a very pretty, stout, little lady, moved with 
unceasing energy about the house, giving the last 
directions to her servants, like a general to his regi- 
ment before battle. Her children raced after her 
with absolute want of discipline. She had never 
been able to enforce obedience, notwithstanding her 
love of order. Their father considered punishment 
a cruelty, and only lost his patience with them when 
they invaded his study. The greatest anger of his 
life had perhaps been when once his four-year-old 
daughter had climbed on a stool and drawn down 
upon herself all his best volumes. His wrath upon 
this occasion had become traditional with the chib 

[37] 


38 


Countess Obernau. 


dren, so that they would have bearded a lion in his 
den sooner than disturb him in his library. 

“ Come down now, children,” said AdMe, as she 
tripped into the room prepared for Faustine, mak- 
ing her last round of the guest-chambers ; but they 
were hidden behind the silk quilt of the bed, playing 
hide-and-seek, all five romping, screaming and hot, 
having in fact a delightful frolic, not much to their 
mother’s taste. It made her heart sick to see them 
treading her beautiful silk coverlid with their little 
leather boots. 

Having called out silence and order several times 
without effect, she finally had recourse to strata- 
gem. 

A carriage ! The aunt arrives !” she cried out 
suddenly, and hurried from the room. The children 
sprang after her downstairs, and Adele had won. 

At last Faustine did come. She had parted that 
day from Audlau, and the sense of her isolation lay 
heavily upon her. One so seldom feels at home in 
the family of a sister. No matter how dear a brother 
or sister may be to us, the brother-in-law, the sister- 
in-law, their parents, their cousins — are so many 
strange elements ; oftener repellent than attractive, 
and yet claiming a regard and friendship which can 
only spring from natural inclination. 

As Faustine approached the end of her journey, 


Countess Obernau. 


39 


she tried to shake off the sadness that oppressed 
her. 

Oberwaldorf was situated at the entrance to the 
valley through which ran a wild wood stream, that 
below lost itself in the river Main, and higher up 
turned a saw-mill. The houses lay between fresh 
gardens, behind them were stretched luxuriant 
fields and meadows. The mountains that encircled 
the valley were decked with brush-wood and myrtle. 
It was not a grand, but a healthful, lovely prospect. 
The manor, politely termed the “ Castle,” rose in 
the center of its grounds, shaded by elms. Old- 
fashioned and without pretension, it had even a 
certain neglected air. The arms over the entrance 
hall were dilapidated. The artistic sculptures of 
the bay-window were crumbling, and no water 
flowed from the urn which a broken Triton held 
over the basin in the court-yard. 

The whole family surrounded Faustine, and one 
could not hear a word for the loud jubilee. Two 
children climbed into the carriage and ordered the 
postilion to drive them around the court, at which 
request he did not seem overpleased. They con 
soled themselves for his lack of enthusiasm by help- 
ing him to unpack. 

“ Do you remember me ?” asked finally a sonorous 
voice behind Faustine. 


40 


Countess Obernau. 


“ Very well,” she was going to say, and turned to 
look at the speaker, but was alarmed to find a tall 
man, bearded like Jupiter Olympus, looking down 
upon her. 

I am little Clemens,” said the giant, with a smile 
of amusement, at her surprise, in his friendly 
eyes. 

“It is quite conceivable that you do not know 
this little fellow,” said Waldorf, with a loud laugh. 
“ He looks like the wild man of the Harz Mountains. 
He was always a chip-of-the-old-block — straight and 
unbending in body and mind.” 

“ I like that,” said Faustine, with the lovely smile 
which Clemens remembered four years before. 

“You look just the same,” said Clemens. 

“ That also gives me pleasure.” 

“Will you not take something, Ini?” asked AdMe. 
“ You must be hungry, all day in a carriage — 
fatiguing, was it not ?” 

“ Neither hungry nor tired, Adele.” 

“We must have supper earlier.” 

“Not on my account, I thank you a thousand 
times ; and will thank you two thousand times more 
if you treat me absolutely without ceremony. I 
never was shy, and shall ask for what I want, if 
you will permit.” 

“That is clever,” said Waldorf. “Hosts and 


Countess Obernau, 


41 


guests must be sans g^ne. Before I forget, what 
name will you give your little god-child?” 

“ Why, the one you desire, my good Waldorf.” 

Oh, no ; the sponsors name the child ; that is 
the proper way.” 

“ I thought that had gone out of fashion.” 

“ It may be, and that is why we like it.” 

‘‘ Would you then like ‘Faustus ’ or ^ Faustin ’ for 
your son ?” she asked, laughing. 

'‘No, I should not ; I don’t care for the romantic 
— suggestive of robbers and ghost stories. Yet I 
would like to honor you. Have you no favorite 
name ?” 

“ Oh, yes, Maximilian. May his long name bring 
him good luck, poor baby.” 

The children surrounded Faustine, quiet as little 
mice — half bewildered and frightened, with fingers 
in their mouths, pulling their buttons, staring at 
her with wild eyes. 

“Will you not go to bed, little ones?” asked 
AdMe. 

There was immediately a noisy good-night kiss- 
ing; their aunt was still too much of a stranger 
for them to venture remonstrances before her. 


CHAPTER V. 


The christening passed with much excitement, but 
with weariness unutterable for at least one person. 
Faustine detested festivities that had been prepar- 
ing for weeks. 

“ They have always a bitter-sweet taste,” she 
would say, “ for all the annoyances, troubles and 
plagues the party-givers have endured.” 

After the great day, she lived in her own fashion ; 
disturbed no one — did not allow herself to be dis- 
turbed ; read, drew and walked. 

Adele could not understand what pleasure one 
could derive from walking. She went into the gar- 
den to look at the cherry-trees or at the potatoes, to 
assure herself they were doing well ; otherwise her 
foot never crossed the threshold of her house. 

Waldorf, like most men whose occupations lead 
[42] 


Countess Obernati, 


43 


them much out-of-doors, thought a walk an enor- 
mous waste of time. Men who lead sedentary lives 
take them at stated times, like a dose of medicine. 

Very humiliating this for the lovers of free, aim- 
less walks, which only discover their hidden charms 
to those who so enjoy them. One cannot subject 
an agreeable walk to rules. No recipe can assure 
it, and society is superfluous. One must either be 
alone or with a congenial spirit. In such com- 
panionship there is but one. 

Clemens sometimes accompanied Faustine, to 
draw her attention to a fine view, a splendid tree 
or lost foot-path among the hills. By and by, he 
went with her every day. When AdMe sat work- 
ing in the garden at evening, and Waldorf paced 
in front of the house, slowly with his pipe, Faustine 
would engage Clemens, after a quarter of an hour 
of this tiresome parade, to start for a longer one. 

He was a nice fellow — gentle in character, as col- 
lossal men often are ; nature giving them a kind 
soul to counteract the strength which would other- 
wise tend to brutality. It is exceptional that such 
men are swaggerers or disturbers of the peace. 
Small men, who must crane their necks that one 
may see them, are the aggressive ones. Equalizing 
nature, too, has often breathed into these diminutive 
figures a strong spirit or a great genius. 


44 


Countess Obernau. 


Clemens’s boyish, half-awakened mind, had four 
years ago felt drawn toward Faustine. His brother 
and sister-in-law did but little to improve him ; but 
he lost something of his angular shyness near the 
graceful woman, who seemed to like to chat and 
laugh with the awkward young fellow, or talk to 
him with gentle gravity. For this he was forever 
grateful to her. Meeting her at that moment of life 
when beginning to look at things less childishly, he 
believed her to be the cause of this new light, and 
he attributed the strange earnestness of his sensa- 
tions to her sweet and serious influence. Every 
time he came to visit his brother, he secretly hoped 
to find Faustine at Oberwaldorf — always in vain ! 
But there lingered in him such a longing, as one 
feels in the winter, for the long-delayed spring. 
Hard work — activity of any kind — two years of 
study — two months, even — will have much power to 
quell the wanderings of imagination, and act like 
water on fire, to bring back a young head into the 
right rut. 

Clemens in no wise fancied that he loved Faus- 
tine, but only held her as the most attractive crea- 
ture he had ever seen, and kept her image fresh. 
And now she was just the same as before. 

She never willingly took a step forward which she 
must later retrace. She often did take steps which 


Countess Obernau, 


^5 


were venturesume, and once taken, she stood fast, 
and said to herself : “No cowardice ! Ever forward ! 
Who have supple limbs must spring and climb.” 
That applied to herself. She did not ask to be fol- 
lowed. On the contrary, she had a fine tact for 
others — that her own steps should not entangle 
theirs — or at least she thought so. 




CHAPTER VI. 

One morning as she started for a walk she found 
Clemens under the elms of the courtyard. 

“ Can I accompany you ?” asked he. 

“ Thank you ; in the morning I do not need you,” 
she said. 

“ Cannot you make me of some use ?” he insisted. 

“ No,” she answered naively ; in the morning I 
do not go far enough to lose myself ; it is too warm ; 
and then it is broad day. In the evening I am 
afraid the darkness may overtake me, and then, 
you know, I need a protector.” She nodded to him 
cordially, and went on. 

This was quite true ; and, on the other hand, she 
thought it might disturb his occupations. 

“ I dislike to disturb people,” she added inwardly. 
“ Max, I cannot disturb. He lives for me ; he can 
walk with me from morning till night ; Clemens — 
no, Clemens must not neglect something better.” 

[46] 



Cou7itess Obernau. 


47 


But Clemens was not too pleased with this con- 
sideration and said to her one evening : 

“ Don’t grudge me a few hours of your compan- 
ionship for these two or three short days will pass 
here.” 

“You must not contract too violent a taste for 
my vagabond kind of existence,” she replied, de- 
preeatingly. 

“ Ah ! When you have left us the everyday 
routine will reassert its rights quickly enough.” 

“ Men’s prudence is certainly extraordinary,” cried 
Faustine, merrily. “ It protects them always from 
wandering a hairsbreadth farther than they have 
intended.” 

“ Do you not approve ?” asked he, earnestly. 

“ I approve everything which does good to others, 
if it doesn’t hurt me,” replied she, laughingly. 

“ And if it hurts you ?” 

“ Then I will not be judge any more ; I cannot 
sit, like Brutus, in judgment over my son and take 
his life. In place of a son I have my inclinations 
and opinions. Through them I am vulnerable.” 

“ Will such strong measures really be necessary, 
if they prove traitors, to uproot them ?” 

“ Perhaps not ; but our whole being, after all, 
consists in the significance which we give to things. 
When I give up my opinion, I confess that instead 


48 


Countess Obernau. 


of a straight tree I have reared up a crooked one ; 
it must be cut down. Where I found lovely shadows 
I find a waste ; where rustling leaves, a silent, dead 
place. Oh, I can understand that to give up one’s 
opinion might be death !” 

“ Wouldn’t the consciousness of a better knowl- 
edge save us from despair.?” 

“ Between this consciousness and despair, one still 
dies. George Foster died of grief — of a broken 
heart — when the French Revolution took a turn 
which did not agree with his opinions.” 

^‘George Foster was an enthusiast, whose soul 
would have consumed him, even if his hopes in the 
Revolution had been realized.” 

Yes, mon amu; something hotter than fish -blood 
was in him. He was not of the kind that die of old 
age. But another George — no enthusiast in the 
sense in which you use the word — named von 
Freundsberg, was stricken with paralysis when at 
the taking of Rome the demoralized soldiery refused 
to obey his orders.” 

“ Don’t you think he would have done much better 
to have devised some means of regaining his influ- 
ence than to vex himself to death about its loss?” 

“ He saw that his time was up, and so he died ; as 
Charles V. abdicated his crown when he found that 
he could no longer really govern. He would not be 


Countess Obernau. 


49 


a figureliead monarcli, nor Freundsberg a figurehead 
commander. You see they had a high opinion of 
their dignity.” 

“ You are terribly learned with all your historical 
instancCvS.” 

They give more emphasis than speaking about 
ourselves.” 

Clemens, in walking, had picked a great bunch of 
wood and meadow flowers. 

“It is splendid,” said Faustine ; “but I cannot 
possibly burden myself.” 

So he carried it very patiently, and she only took 
it now and then and pressed her face into it, to in- 
hale its freshness and fragrance. In an hour the 
flowers were faded, lifeless, broken things; wild 
flowers fade so quickly. 

“ Don’t carry them any longer,” said Faustine. 
Clemens gave them into her hands; she threw 
them away. 

“ Oh !” he cried out, a little mournfully, and stood 
still. 

“ My dear fellow, I must have my hands free to 
use when I walk ; that you knew long ago.” 

“But I would have liked to carry them for 
you.” 

“ They were good for nothing now. Flowers are 
only beautiful as long as they are in contact with 


Countess Ohernaii. 




the earth. In five minutes they smell of death. I 
never pick flowers/’ 

“ But these were picked.” 

“ Then we will g-ive them to the element which 
will be the best for their present condition,” said 
Faustine, lightly. She turned round, seized up the 
bouquet and threw it in the brook, which carried it 
away quickly over its stones. 

“ The quiet flowers had not dreamed of such a 
dance ; I wonder does it amuse them ?” she said. 

“ You are very cruel, countess.” 

“ And you amusingly sentimental.” 

“ Why do you grudge me the flowers ?” 

“ Is it on their account you are lamenting?” and 
Faustine laughed heartily. It seems to me you 
fret a great deal about them. Did you mean to 
make a sachet of them ? I can scarcely fancy you 
intended to keep them as a souvenir of our walk.” 

“ Why not, may I ask ?” said Clemens, somewhat 
piqued. 

“ Because it is not important enough ; we have 
not discussed sufficiently interesting subjects.” 

“ I regret that — for you. To me everything you 
speak of is interesting.” 

“That is so nice — to find interest in everything.” 

“ In no way my case ; only everything that you 
say.” 


Co7miess Ohernau, 


51 


“ As Socrates sat listening at the feet of Diotima. 
So really you think that there is no disgrace if a 
man believes that he can profit by a woman’s com- 
panionship ?” she said, with mock gravity. “ Un-* 
happily I am not clever or wise.” 

“ Oh !” said Clemens. But Faustine interrupted 
him quickly : 

“ In common phra.se, I am quite clever enough for 
myself, perhaps ; but for others certainly not. No 
one must go to school to me. The practical grasp- 
ing side of life is insupportable to me ; and men 
are put here for that. Who doesn’t work like a 
steam-engine is worthless. Who can sit longest at 
his desk writing without liver-complaint, or com- 
mand the loudest without lung disease, never allow- 
ing the eyes to wander or the patience to flag — he 
will ^ amount to something,’ as they say. Now I 
believe one can do just as well out of the rank and 
file. I should revolt — become a deserter and run 
away. And you know that is disgraceful and, as 
advice, very bad.” 

“Ah, countess,” murmured Clemens, very low; 
“ you are indescribably fascinating.” 

“Really? Fascination is always indescribable,” 
she laughed ; “ it is well you didn’t attempt to de- 
scribe it in words.” 

“ Yes ; this one feels near you. Do not take what 


52 


Countess Obernau, 


I say amiss ; one shouldn’t pay compliments, I 
know ; I would not for the world say anything you 
do not like.** 

Faustine suddenly let the conversation drop. 




CHAPTER VIL 


That night she wrote to Andlau : 

“ Max, I am sad ! The days pass like water through my 
fingers ; nothing remains of them. One does not live here ; at 
the best one only dreams, and I love to live ! The only thing I 
fear is to die without having seen and known all. ‘ What?’ 
you will ask. Everything, dear love — past, present, future. Yes, 
the future. Why cannot we judge of it as the physician takes 
the diagnosis of a case in illness? To be sure, we have not all 
the discernment of a physician, and all physicians are not clever 
and successful. So — I must console myself. But the longing 
remains. I look with astonishment at people who have no such 
sentiments. Sometimes I envy them, and think it is fullness of 
happiness which makes them indifferent to what lies beyond. But 
when I reflect I see well that limited views suit limited vision, and 
I cease to marvel. If I should say to my brother-in-law : ‘ Ah, 
how I would like to know the future !’ he would reply: ‘There 
IS a fortune-teller m the village; but do you believe such non- 
sense V He is very good — my brother-in-law ; practical, sen- 
sible, honest, cheats no one; and my sister is just like him; they 
are cut out for one another, and happy in each other. They are 
all fond of each other here. Had I to finish m^ life here, it would 

[ 53 ] 


54 


Countess Obernau. 


be soon over; I should die of ennui. Heavens ! What do I find 
to talk about to you ? Near you I could be quiet for days and 
weeks, and never invaded by this soul-deadening weariness. We 
always find food for thoughts. Here all is action. You know 
St. Vitus’s dance ; one feels like imitating its victims. When I 
see this working and driving from morning till night, I feel as 
though I must, to my best ability, move my hands and feet as 
well as the rest. But my limbs were only made for useless tasks. 
Oh, Max, how I thank you that you like repose in life. Adele 

says one learns ; but I can only learn what I already know. 

Adde leads such a busy life that it leaves me to take refuge with 
Clemens Waldorf. He is the only one to whom I can speak, 

and he listens. There is not much in the matter of answers ; 

bnt, then, no one answers to my taste except yourself. I am 
longing to hear your answers. I am satiated with reading them. 
Oh, fatal satiety? Must it creep in everywhere? You will not 
feel hurt that I prefer your presence to your letters.” 




CHAPTER VIII. 

Clemens was half wounded in his vanity, and half 
sad at heart that h'austine treated him just as 
formerly. What had pleased him then did not suf- 
fice now. 

“ Am I still a school-boy in her eyes?” he some- 
times asked himself. “ Could any man suit her ? 
Oh, I should like her to rest upon my palm like a 
butterfly !” 

Faustine had no idea that Clemens or any other 
could feel more than good-will toward her. She 
thought herself too incapable of reciprocity of feel- 
ing to gain a deep influence over others, and fancied 
this conviction must be written upon her brow. 
“ Men,” she thought, “ know themselves where they 
can hope to make at least a slight impression, and 
they will not play at ‘ Love's Labor Lost.' ” Clemens 
was so friendly with every one — so kindly in word 

[55] 



56 


Countess Obernau. 


and act, that had he lacked this friendliness with 
her she would have marveled. Once, as he played 
ball untiringly with the children, she said : 

You have a great deal of heart ; you deserve a 
nice wife.” 

Clemens opened his eyes wide. His brother 
looked up. 

“ Are you thinking of a wife, Clemens?” 

Clemens turned toward his brother, looked at him 
and remained silent. 

“ Why not?” answered AdMe for him. 

“ He is so young ; so inexperienced in farming.” 

“ Must love wait for a profound science in farm- 
ing?” asked Faustine, laughingly. 

And you were not much older when we were 
married,” added AdMe. 

“ Women, next to marrying themselves, love 
nothing so well as marrying others,” said Waldorf, 
and laughed as loudly as the thunder at his own 
platitude. 

“ I think that is very flattering for you,” said 
AdMe, irritably. 

“ It is generally better to make a match than break 
one,” said Faustine. “ But what thinks Clemens 
about this ?” 

“ That he has time,” answered the young man, 
laconically. 


Countess Obernau. 


57 


“ See how well I know my brother,” cried Wal- 
dorf, triumphant. “ He will first train himself 
thoroughly, then purchase an estate in my neigh- 
borhood and establish himself. During that time 
some pretty Josephine will be growing up for him.” 

“ Allow people to arrange their own affairs,” said 
Clemens, shortly. 

“And select a wife to their own taste?” asked 
Faustine. 

“ What twaddle, that !” said Waldorf. 

“ It rather pleases me,” cried Faustine, and clapped 
her hands. “ Now I like a man that desires more 
of his wife than that she will not over-salt his soup.” 

“ If one is too exacting in one’s choice, one is 
rarely happy,” remarked AdMe. 

“ If I had a daughter,” said Faustine, “ and a man 
saw in her his future housekeeper, I should be pro- 
foundly humiliated.” 

“ You are wrong !” cried Adele. “ Common inter- 
ests — that is the strongest bond.” 

“ I believe I am foolish,” replied Faustine, quietly ; 
“ and heaven has spared me this trial by giving me 
no daughter. I never doubted that sorrow and 
trouble, battled through together, bind hearts to 
each other. I would make many sacrifices; but 
should expect my husband to wish to own, not a 
servant— but me— Faustine.” 


58 


Countess Obernau. 


'' I am amazed,” said Waldorf, and let fall his pipe. 

“ At my peculiar ideas ?” asked she, a little con- 
temptuously. 

“ No ; that you do not marry, you speak of it so 
reasonably.” 

Faustine made merry over her brother-in-law’s 
comment : 

“ Why should I marry ? I am too old !” 

Oh,” said he, with a bow ; such a beautiful 
woman will never be old.” 

“ Bravo ! You are exercising yourself in gallantry. 
Since I am young and beautiful enough — perhaps 
not rich enough.” 

“ That is quite another thing. I was surprised to 
hear you speak of sacrifices, having heard you say 
you thought women should be on the same footing 
with men.” 

“ Would you expect the woman to be the head 
of the family ?” asked Adele. 

“No, I would expect a man to treat his wife as an 
equal, and not like a bought slave, putting his heel 
upon her neck in his bad humors, and in his 
pleasant moments decking it with a necklace. 
There is nothing like this to demoralize a woman. 
It destroys her delicacy. To-day she allows a 
brutality to pass for the sake of a new bonnet to- 
morrow.” 


Countess Obernau. 


59 


“Clemens,” she said, turning suddenly to the 
young man ; “ think of these things when you 
marry.” 

“ But you forget his wife is to come from heaven,” 
put in Waldorf ; “ he has already told us.” 

“ I wish you as good a one as you deserve,” she 
said kindly to Clemens. 

“ Has she, then, not guessed that for me there is 
but one woman in the world, and no other?” he 
asked himself. He was distrait when he went for a 
walk with her later, and spoke little. This, how- 
ever, did not strike Faustine, who knew how much 
he liked to listen to her. He did not notice where 
they went ; nor did she, as she always relied upon 
his guidance and preferred unknown paths. 

“ Where are we ?” she asked at last, as they came 
suddenly out of a wooded place into a swamp skirted 
by trees, through which a turbid brook flowed 
vslowly. “ It is absolutely ghostly here. Must I 
cross this brook ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Clemens ; and without another 
word he took her up in his arms and carried her 
across. 

When Faustine was once more on terra firma — 
“ I forbid that,” she said ; “ I can use my own feet. 
Where are we going now?” She spoke angrily and 
shook her gown as if she would be free from his 


6o 


Countess Obernau. 


touch. She did it thoughtlessly, and just this 
wounded him deeply. He answered her question : 

“ I really do not know.” 

“ Why did you carry me through the brook if it 
was useless ?” 

“ That, too, I do not know.” 

“ Then please go and find the way.” She sat 
down on a stone ; Clemens stood immovable near 
her. 

“ Are you too tired ?” she asked, impatiently. 

“ No ; I wish to ask you something.” 

“ Why do you hesitate, then ? It is very uncom- 
fortable here. Well ?” 

“ Why did you shake your dress as from the con- 
tact of some hideous worm ?” 

“ I do not like any one to touch me,” she said, and 
laughed. “ Do not take it amiss ; but I really see no 
cause to be thankful to you for carrying me across 
the brook.” 

“ I am very unhappy,” he said. 

“ Because you have lost the way?” 

“ No, because I have lost my head.” 

“ That is very distressing,” said she mockingly. 
“ Perhaps if you first look for the path you will find 
that, too. I believe it is going to rain.” 

Clemens sprang over the brook and disappeared 
in the wood, Faustine waited. The time seemed 


Corintess Obernau. 


6i 


long to her. The twilight lingered, but some dark 
clouds rolled overhead. She felt timid in this lonely 
place. She decided to follow the stream without 
waiting for her companion’s return, for a few drops 
fell. She gathered up her skirts and crossed the 
meadow to the wood and stood a good quarter of an 
hour on the road. 

“ Clemens has certainly lost his head,” said she. 
“ This is the valley of Oberwaldorf, aud this little 
muddy brook is a surer guide than he, for I think it 
falls in our well-known mountain torrent. Ah, well, 
it is better to depend on nature than on men.” 




CHAPTER IX. 

It rained heavily. She did find her way safely 
back, but thoroughly drenched, to the house, where 
she amused her astonished sister with her adven- 
ture, and made herself merry at Clemens’s expense. 

“ He will be looking for you and worried to 
death,” said Adele. 

“ Assuredly he will.” 

“ You really should have waited for him.” 

“ And stayed in that miserable meadow to be 
rained upon ? Thanks ! His stupidity deserved 
this little punishment.” 

“ That is the pleasure of these walks. You will 
catch cold, and he — ” 

“ Perhaps a cough,” said Faustine gayly, “ and 
that is no great misfortune. But I will never walk 
with him again.” 

Clemens had intended to return as they had come, 
but as he had not observed the way they had taken, 
[62] 


Countess Obernau. 


63 


lie stopped at a woodman’s hut and got a child, who 
was playing at the door, to point out to him the 
shortest way to the castle. There was some little 
delay, and returning to the meadow, he found Faus- 
tine had gone. Instead of going at once to Ober- 
waldorf, he wandered about hither and thither in 
search of her. He met no one who had seen her. 
He could not believe any evil had befallen her ; 
there were no robbers or dangerous precipices in 
the neighborhood ; but she might have been 
alarmed, he thought, anxiously, and tore his hair in 
despair. At last he did what he should have done 
at first — returned to Oberwaldorf — to send all the in- 
habitants of castle and village, if necessary, to look 
for her. 

The turret clock struck ten. At this hour the 
whole castle was usually dark. To-day there were 
lights in some of the rooms. “ She is not there, or 
they would have gone to their rooms,” he thought. 
He entered the salon — she was there — he flew to her 
— seized her hands — ^kissed them with mad rapture, 
and then sank on a stool at her side, unable to 
speak. 

“ What did you think ?” said Faustine, after he 
had recovered himself. 

“Nothing,” he replied, “else I should have 
thought the truth. My anxiety was too great.” 


64 


Countess Obernati. 


When the next day he proposed a walk — “ That 
is all over,” she said ; “ I have lost faith in you. You 
left me alone in a swamp.” 

He entreated and prayed, but Faustine went no 
more. Her departure was drawing near, and she 
could not conceal her delight. Clemens was as if 
stunned. On the last evening, as they were by 
chance left alone, he took courage. 

“ If I only knew that you would think of me 
without annoyance — ” 

On Faustine’s lips dawned a faint smile, which 
meant : “ I don’t think of you at all,” but she only 
said, indifferently : “You have done me no harm.” 

“ But that evening in the meadow ?” 

“ Dear Clemens, you cannot think that would 
really annoy me. Be tranquil; we part — as we 
met — good friends.” 

“ And does that mean nothing?” 

“ Not much,” said the young woman. “ Friends 
do little enough for one another ; but good friends 
wish each other a happy journey, and then — !” 

“ Would you not allow me to write to you ?” 

“ Frankly, I would scarcely find time to answer 
you, so that I think it would be a useless permis- 
sion.” 

“ You are of an icy, superhuman coldness, count- 
ess. You have lived here five weeks so friendly, so 


he took her in his arms ANO (’ARRIEI) her 


ACROSS.— 


Pane r)9. 








Countess Obernau. 


65 


sweetly, that it was a boon to be near you — to see 
you — to be dazzled by you. And now you go as if 
all had been a sport or had never been.” 

“ I go with the same friendliness and inteiest as 
when I came. It would be laughable to affect great 
sorrow. My stay has been very agreeable among 
dear, good people; but I am also well content to 
leave, for I am not nor ever should be at home 
here.” 

And when shall I see you again?” 

“ Must you then see me again ?” 

“ Yes,” he said. 

“ If it would help you, but there is no use.” 

“ You are terrible, Faustine !” 

“ Am I wrong ? Come, we will play a game of 
chess.” 

They played, but Clemens so inattentively that 
Faustine took his queen. 

“The queen is gone ; the game is over,” he said, 
and left the room. 

The general leave-taking on the following morn- 
ing was short and hearty. Clemens took no private 
one. 

Faustine came to Audlau with a jubilate on her 
lips : 

“ Now I shall live again !” she said. “ When I 
am away from you, Max, I wander in the valley, al- 


66 


Countess Obernau. 


ways looking for the exit, always longing for the 
mountains, thirsty for air, for liberty, for you/' 

A halo of happiness surrounded her. It almost 
hurt her that he sought to calm her tumultuous 
feeling. She was enchantingly beautiful in the 
storm of her emotions, as are all mortals beautiful 
who find their element. But he loved her so much 
that he felt more fear than pleasure, lest the fire of 
such moments should consume her and she should 
vanish from him. Love must have solicitude. 

“ Heaven and I — " Faustine was wont to say, “we 
must lighten and thunder ; but you people, with 
your lightning-rods, you tire us to death.” 

“ Why do you cry now, Ini ?” asked Audlau, dur- 
ing that first hour that found them reunited. “ Tears 
are for sorrow, and I want, when you are with me, 
that you should be happy, contented, quiet.” 

“ Oh, I am quiet enough,” she said, smiling 
through her tears. 

“ Then sit near me and tell me everything.” 

“ Sitting down, dear Max, is such a dreadful in- 
vention ! My thoughts rust if I sit, and that doesn’t 
give calm, but unrest. To-day I am too happy ! My 
soul is like a landscape that the sun lightens as it 
does the earth, which smokes and glows in its heat 
as a decked altar. Oh, my Max ! I am in a haven 
of calm — only when you, my sun, shine upon me.” 


Countess Obernau. 


67 


Audlau knelt before her and tried to rest her 
head on his breast, but she pushed him away. 

“ Leave me,” she said. “ Play to me, dear, it is 
so long since I have heard any music ! I would like 
ygu to speak to me in music to-day.” 

Audlau seated himself at the piano. His fingers 
wandered into a dreamy improvisation. Sometimes 
he followed the melody of the composer or, again, 
was carried away upon the fancy of his inspiration, 
adding something of himself to the cadences of 
the master, as one marks the best-loved pages of a 
book. 

How mean all other arts seem compared to music ! 
They find their models in nature which they ^ex- 
press and idealize — the human form and its action, 
and the space wherein man moves ; fine aims, no 
doubt, as are all aims which soar above material 
necessity. But the marble God and painted saint 
become one of us — go with us hand in hand. 
Poetry, the natural speech of ingenuous men, gives 
us back our own thoughts in our own words. Music 
alone does not beautify only this world and its 
aspects, but overshadows us with another in which 
we hover, giving us eyes with which to behold the 
mysteries of love and faith. How strange that all 
these sources of delight should spring through 
some mysterious combination of wood and metal, 


68 


Countess Obernau. 


breathed forth in numbers weird, penetrating and 
enticing. Music, like Columbus, discovers a new 
world to earth — a world in which each seeks his 
paradise, an Eden to which all have entrance. 
Savages, children, and the old, either too indifferent 
or too blunted to appreciate beauties of form and 
color, find in music hidden sorceries, and the cradle- 
song and dirge accompany the first and last steps 
of life. 

All this by parenthesis. I only wished to say 
that all music, from that of Orpheus to the Rat- 
Catcher, always works wonders. It brought rest to 
Faustine’s heart. 



CHAPTER X. 


Count Mengen lived very much to himself in 
Dresden. It is true some people remained ; but for 
him, no magnet. The superficial must indeed have 
held something very seductive to attract him, and 
to penetrate life deeply one must have a higher in- 
centive than mere idle curiosity. Mengen was proud 
and cold in these days, and feared nothing but the 
sacrifice of his inward balance and the loss of his 
self-control. If Dante cared to enter into hell and 
heaven, he went because Beatrice commanded and 
guided him. Every one has not a Beatrice or even 
a Virgil ; Mengen had neither. He liked the society 
of women well enough as an amusement, and be- 

[69] 


70 


Countess Obernau. 


cause a clever and handsome fellow finds in it food 
for his vanity. But he was generally better under- 
stood by men than by women. He laughed a great 
deal, so that women thought him full of fun ; but 
men knew by experience that one often laughs be- 
cause it is not advisable for one to weep. Mario 
laughed at his own colossal desires and their very 
meager results. He laughed at the masquerade 
in which head and heart move — one cheating the 
other. He laughed at the victory, when good sense 
and feeling fought out their little battle and said to 
each other: “ To-morrow will be vanquisher.” 
He laughed at himself when he steeled and warned 
himself against the power of feeling. He laughed 
because he was very earnest. He was a strong man. 
Obstacles were to him a spur to renewed effort. 
“ Be true to yourself and your purpose,” his father 
had said to him once. ‘‘ Do not say you will die for 
it — nothing is easier ; but that you will live for it.” 
He had great respect for his father’s opinion. It 
had saved him more than once from some foolish 
step. 

Mario and Feldern were thrown more or less to- 
gether now, although no deeper interest bound 
them than the remembrance of their pleasant stu- 
dent days. Feldern was much occupied with his 
own small concerns, hopes and aims. He was not 


Countess Obernau. 


71 


one to do his work brilliantly, but he had fidelity. 
To him Mario’s wider horizon and ambitions were 
almost incomprehensible. Feldern did not aspire 
or philosophize. 

“ I shall never be a success,” he would say, when 
Mario asked him why he did not try to better him- 
self. 

“ Why not as well as another ? How can you be 
so easily contented? When they asked Pope John 
why he went to Rome — ‘ To become Pope,’ he re- 
plied — and became Pope. One must lay a hand on a 
thing, or at least feel the confidence.” 

“ It lies in my character to be content with small 
happiness/’ Feldern would reply. “ Very few and 
very calm things satisfy me. Great ones would 
make me giddy. And then the malice, the inimical 
glances and words which follow the steps of suc- 
cess ! The basilisk eyes that salute you ! And, oh, 
the moods of one’s patrons to be borne ! — like those 
of the Sultan with his favorites. Ah, the goddess 
of happiness herself is not exempt from terrors, I 
am sure !” 

“ My dear Feldern, you talk like a timid woman. 
Is not the whole, great, rich, splendid world for us 
all ? Do you think it is like a fine table-service of 
glass and silver, which we admire but mustn’t 
touch ? There is dust in the arena of the Olympian 


72 


Countess Obernau. 


games— the stamp of horses and driving of chariots ; 
but then there is the hope of the triumph.” 

“And what good comes from this hardly won 
triumph.” 

“ The green crown, mon amiC 

“ Well, really, Mengen, it seems to me you are as 
easily satisfied as the rest of us. I thought you 
aspired to a golden diadem, or to at least a wreath 
of roses !” 

Mario smiled, but his eyes flamed with a sudden 
fire. 

“ I don’t want wages ; I only want satisfaction ; 
and the green wreath, you know, is its symbol.” 

“ And is that really enough ? Do you long for no 
other joys, no other pleasures than those of fame?” 

“ Oh,” said Mario, laughing. “ As far as longing 
goes I long for a crushing happiness, or else for 
nothing. No halves, no mediocrities for me, but in 
one word — all. The gods only know how it would 
be with such enjoyment, as they alone can bestow 
it. Until now my life has been mere struggling, 
and its few successes short-lived dreams from which 
I have awakened anxious for more of life.” 

“You seem so locked up within yourself,” said 
Feldern, “ possibly your aspirations make you happy 
enough.” 

“ No one is happy who hasn’t found room to de- 


Countess Obernau. 


73 


velop his capacity, to stretch himself out in every 
direction. It seldom goes so well with a man, that 
his budding fancies come to flower and fruition ; 
there are so many frosts! I suppose only eom- 
pleted men are happy. That I am not, and per- 
haps never shall be. It seems to me that a cramped 
youth must petrify old age and even manhood into 
stone. I don’t like it. I want to live while I live, 
and enjoy with every sense I possess.” 

“ Do you ever think seriously of marry- 
ing?” 

“ Sometimes ; in the future,” said Mario, smiling. 
“ The fixed star rather pleases my fancy ; but my 
restlessness doesn’t agree very well with the fixed- 
star nature. I suppose this fixity must belong in 
some way to marriage.” 

“ Marriage only gives it to those to whom it is 
possible.” 

“I shall leave all those developments to my 
future wife. But when shall I become acquainted 
with your fiancee 

Will you go out to-morrow ?” 

With pleasure.” 

The next day they rode up toward Meissen, along 
the Elbe. The estate of Mademoiselle Cunigunde’s 
parents lay half-way between. Mario tried to in- 
duce his friend to describe his beloved. 


74 


Countess Obernau, 


“ I could not be impartial,” Feldern replied. You 
will think her sisters prettier.” 

“ Diable ! She has sisters then ? Why didn’t 
you tell me sooner. I am very chary of entering a 
house, where there are a lot of young girls.” 

Cunigunde’s sisters are charming.” 

“And she herself?” 

“ Charming is no word for her.” 

“ She will be a sensible, excellent person,” 
thought Mario, and dropped the subject. 

At last they reached the place. They rode through 
an archway, over which two splendid lindens leaned, 
into a graveled court and stopped their horses be- 
fore an attractive country house. On the steps 
which led up into the hall some ladies were sitting. 
Feldern was pleasantly received, and presented 
Count Mengen to Madame von Stein and her two 
younger daughters. Then he asked for Cunigunde. 
She had gone into the vineyard. Just as Feldern, 
however, went to find her, she came up with her 
father. Mario stood petrified by her appearance. 

“ Is Feldern mad,” thought he, “ or does he want 
to make a fool of me ! This girl not beautiful ! 
Not as beautiful as those insignificant little sisters 
of hers ! He is certainly blind or crazy ?” 

Feldern approached his fiancee with much warmth ; 
but, whether on account of a stranger’s presence or 


Countess Obernau, 


75 


of a natural reserve, she met him coldly. She 
made such a graceful, evasive movement that it 
was impossible for him to kiss her hand, as she 
stood for a moment near him. 

“ She looks down^pon him. Oh, the pity of it ! 
She is taller than he,” thought Mario, “ only half an 
inch, perhaps, but taller ,; that will never do.” 

Madame von Stein talked cleverly, which is 
agreeable. Monsieur von Stein only answered 
questions, which is also agreeable, when people are 
tiresome. 

Cunigunde did not utter a syllable. Her sisters, 
however, chattered as much as was needful. The 
conversation never flagged. 

Mengen, although generally at home in all circles, 
did not feel quite at ease. One false chord destroys 
a whole concert to a sensitive ear. Cunigunde was 
this inharmonious chord. Her hauteur^ her inatten- 
tion, were contagious to him. The others were un- 
doubtedly accustomed to it. But how could it be so 
with her lover ? 

“ If that girl were my fiancee C thought Mario, 
“ and as indifferent with me, I would not marry her 
for all the treasures of the world.” 

If he had been as much enamored as Feldern, he 
would have married her, notwithstanding. 

The girl wore a large straw hat, which not only 


76 


Countess Obernau. 


shaded her face but even her neck and shoul- 
ders. 

P'eldern begged her to take it off. 

The sun,” she said ; but as she sat in the 
shadow of the porch, she corrected herself — 
'‘gnats.” 

“ How disagreeable of you,” said Frau von Stein, 
half aloud. 

Thus rebuked, the girl silently removed the hat. 
She had wonderful hair crowning her head in heavy 
coils. 

Feldern took a grape-vine and wound it in her 
braids. She looked like Ariadne, but with no pain 
at the infidelity of Theseus, and without triumph at 
the love of Bacchus. She evidently found little 
pleasure in the thought that her lover admired her. 
She only suffered it. And only to suffer a thing 
means to suffer. 

As he touched her hair the hot color flushed for 
one moment her pale face, and she looked at him 
with a glance that was inscrutable to Mengen. 
Later, when she and her decoration were unob- 
served, she made a sudden movement of the head, 
which displaced it and threw the loosely bound 
leaves to the ground. 

Feldern could certainly flatter himself with no 
attention and no smiles from her ; but Mengen, even 


t 


Countess Obernan. 


11 


less. She not only did not speak, but she did not 
look at any one. Some people need not speak, they 
i have but to glance and one hears a deep intentioned 
; music, such magic have the eyes. 

I People who speak without looking up must have 
I a very enticing voice or a great richness of elo- 
J quence, if their speech is to impress. Unseen 
speakers only half persuade and never enchant. 
The expression is so often true when the words lie. 

I The word is a clever pupil of the mind, but the 
I expression or play of the features is a child of the 
I soul, and the soul shines through, as the flesh-tint 
f through a muslin dress. Perhaps Cunigunde in- 
tended to conceal her soul. 

The cool outside observer sometimes sees through 
this game more clearly than he upon whom it is 
intended to impose, and Mario noticed that although 
she looked at no one, so that you might have be- 
lieved that she was absorbed entirely in herself, 
yet she did once or twice raise her eyes, and in 
them there lurked a hot thirst. A boatman, who 
would reach the shore, but who cannot for the surg- 
ing surf, might have this expression. It was an ex- 
pression of terror. 

They had music. The little sisters sang duets 
with young, fresh voices, and teasingly begged 
Cunigunde to join them. 


78 


Countess Obernau. 


“ I cannot,” said the girl ; “I would like to, but 
can never sing with other people.” 

Well, then, sing alone,” begged Feldern ; and 
she sang with a beautiful ice-cold voice and lifeless 
execution, as often as he wished, and such songs as 
he selected. 

When he took his leave, she parted from him as 
she had greeted him. No glance or word of closer 
significance passed between them. Scarcely were 
the friends on horseback when Mario broke out. 

“ You are quite right. ^ Charming’ is not the ex- 
pression for Fraulein von Stein. She is really like 
a picture, without figure of speech — I mean beauti- 
ful as a picture.” 

“ I thought her sisters would please you better.” 

“ My dear fellow, I repudiate this affront to my 
taste. Two chattering geese and a white swan ! 
When are you to be married to this goddess.^” 

In November, I think.” 

“ That is the month in which I always abhor the 
North. You do very well to crown it with roses. 
But she is immensely quiet — your bride.” 

“ That is her way.” 

“ How lovely women are !” Mengen broke out 
once more, after a pause. 

You are quite in ecstasies !” said Feldern, a little 
coldly. 


Countess Obernau. • 


79 


“ How can that surprise you — you, who have been 
for four years under such witchery, and have borne 
all the torment of the weary waiting?” 

“ I don’t torment myself when I am sure of a 
thing which is only delayed.” 

“ But doesn’t waiting bring impatience, and don’t 
you call impatience torment ? Do not let Mademoi- 
selle Cunigunde hear that. She would not be 
pleased with your cold asceticism.” 

“ I suppose I know best how to get on with my 
own betrothed !” answered Feldern, ill-humoredly. 

One certainly should,” hovered on Mario’s lips, 
but he checked the wounding remark. Their con- 
versation continued in monosyllables. 

Feldern never invited Mario again to accompany 
him to see his future bride, and Mario never ex- 
pressed a wish to do so. He did not interest him- 
self sufficiently in Cunigunde to. run the risk of 
arousing Feldern’s jealousy, and Feldern had cer- 
tainly shown some annoyance. 

“ I don’t believe he has ever fathomed that girl’s 
heart,” Mario thought. 

Narrow and self-satisfied people can sometimes 
rest, however, without such fathoming. Nothing 
to them exists which they cannot see and under- 
stand. Others, less self-satisfied, are made uneasy by 
the sense that their eyes do not penetrate far enough 


8o 


Countess Obernau. 


— that a great deal is eluding them. In this failure 
they find a certain humiliation. This alone makes 
love Goddike — that like God, it has divined all. 
Sense doubts ; investigation analyzes ; reason tests ; 
love knows. But the fretful, uncertain, vague senti- 
ment people call love can certainly know little. 
How many guess at its secrets only through good 
luck, through chance, make mistakes, or if they hit 
the mark, never the central point of the target — • 
never strike the moment in which the bud of the 
aloe blooms, that flower which only blooms every 
hundred years. “ It is a legend ! It is a fable !” say 
the wise. “ Naturalists know nothing of such an 
aloe !” But the poets know of it, my good friends, 
and who then is right ? Poets are a mystic folk, 
who have created many other things besides an aloe, 
which blooms once every hundred years. They 
drank at the fountain with the Chaldaic shepherds, 
and the priests of Memphis and of Dodona were 
their pupils. Children of Homer who created gods ! 
What would men have known of the whole of Olym- 
pus, had not old Homer given it to them ? Children 
of Moses who gained world ! The wisest hypo- 
theses of later centuries are worth little, unless in 
accord with their immortal voices. Whatever the 
historians and the philosophers discover cannot rob 
Homer and Moses of their glory. Depend upon the 


Coimtess Obernau, 


8i 


poets, my good people, even if they bid you believe 
in the aloe which blooms only once in every hun- 
dred years. In the scorching hot desert of life, 
where the' brooks have run dry and the trees are 
parched, where no bird sings, where no breeze 
blows, under the burning equator of the heart — 
there, in spite of all the naturalists may say, blooms 
this flower! Surely — yes — but only every hundred 
years. Who can know when he stands before it if 
the hundred years have not just flown I If any one 
throws my little book aside impatiently, I cannot 
blame him. He was prepared to read a story, and I 
give him foolish legends. He expects that I shall 
amuse him, not myself. It is difficult to bring the 
heads of author and reader under the same hat. 



/ ' 



CHAPTER XL 

Time passes with equal rapidity in continual change 
or quiet routine. “ Another day gone,” says he who 
has passed the twelve hours at his work, or he who 
has rushed through the sights of some new place. 
The quiet man thanks God for his peace and prays 
for a little amusing distraction. The restless one 
thanks Him for his amusing annoyances and prays 
for a little quiet ; sometimes neither thinks of prayer 
or praise ; but one stretches out weary feet and the 
other tired arms. 

How wonderful is the similarity of all men’s des- 
tinies ! 

Another summer gone !” sighed Faustine, as 
she began to think of turning her steps homeward 
during these short, misty days of the autumn. “ I 
shall have to hurry if I am to see the whole world. 
Perhaps there won’t be time enough, and perhaps 
there won’t be money enough. I wish I might put 
[82] 


Countess Obernau. 


B3 


on a man’s clothes — take up my pack and wander 
about. How all the salons would be closed against 
this little vagabond, and what a lost creature Count- 
ess Obernau would be, so shut out. I can’t quite 
make up my mind to ostracism, and so I lose the 
best fun in the world.” 

“You seem so restless — so dissatisfied. Ini ; your 
love so insecure. If I did not know you well, you 
would make me wretched,” said Audlau. 

“ How absurd you are !” she would answer. “ My 
heart is steadfast enough. You may rely upon it as 
on a rock. Isn’t the magnet the most reliable thing 
in nature ? And isn’t it always vacillating here and 
there ? Yet you know it always points unchangingly 
toward the north. I confess I should rather point 
to the tropics. Let us go into the dome. It is rain- 
ing a little.” 

They were wandering in beautiful Mainz. 

“ What an untiring church-seer you are.” 

“ Oh, I adore old churches, and I adore old houses 
— standing so quietly apart out of the way of their 
neighbors — oh, old houses, how I do love you ! In 
these great, high, lofty apartments, it is still possible 
to have lofty thoughts. If T were a man, it is only 
in such a house I would look for a wife. Girls 
brought up in modern houses are always before 
strange eyes. All the world pries in at them and 


84 


Countess Obernau. 


asks carelessly: ‘What are you about?’ The sun 
shines into a hundred windows, as into green-houses 
where flowers are forced. Ah, for a maiden, the 
-shade is well — still, cool, green shade where she can 
remain fresh. There are no more miracle maidens, 
with cheeks ablQom like the apple-blossoms — they 
have to learn so much — have so many arts — it tires. 
I assure you it is all the fault of new houses. If I 
were a man I would go into the street alone, and I 
should look to the right and the left. Ther^, all of a 
sudden, in some dark, old house, at an open window, 
over a sculptured doorway, I should see a lovely 
girl working ; not quickly, you know, like a seiVant, 
but with lazy fingers. Her pouting lips should be 
singing a song; her hair light and loose, as God 
wills, and she should have very serious eyes. Such 
a girl should be my love, and this is the way my 
wooing should be : Every day I would pass her 
house at morning and evening. Then one morn- 
ing I should constrain myself not to go, that her 
eyes at evening might ask me : ‘ Where were you 
this morning early ?’ Oh, Max, come ; we will look 
for the house and the girl ! To be sure, I cannot 
marry her.” 

“ But I can,” said Audlau. 

“Just as little,” and Faustine threw back her 
head proudly. 


Countess Obernau. 


85 


“ And what amends will you make the poor girl 
that she is not to marry at all?” 

I will paint her.” 

Bravo ! That will make a pretty picture,” said 
Audlau, and they walked on through wind and fog. 
He took great pleasure in her talent. It seemed 
salutary to her. It was a channel through which 
the overflow of her feeling spent itself. 

He always listened, with pleasure, to the expres- 
sion of her vagrant fancy. When her opinions did 
not agree with his they, at least, never jarred upon 
him, and so it came about that Faustine was toler- 
ably spoiled. All other companionship seemed 
tiresome and sterile to her. He had accustomed 
her to speaking inconsequently, thoughtlessly re- 
vealing herself to him in perfect freedom. This 
makes it difficult for a person to conform him- 
self to constraints and conditions, where each 
word may be weighed and misunderstood. She 
was only really happy when with Audlau. “ ‘ Mon 
alter n est pas natiirel, s' it n'est a pleines voiles I 
agree with Montaigne,” she would say. Audlau’s 
love was to her like the spring air, in which she 
could spread her wings like a lark, rising upon it, 
soaring and singing. 

In Frankfort Audlau found a letter announcing 
his mother’s death. His two brothers wished to 


86 


Countess Obernau. 


see him on matters of business. There was trouble 
between them. 

“ They need me,” he said. I suppose they want 
a witness to prove that they haven’t tried, pistol in 
hand, to wrest from each other one more Napoleon 
than was their due.” 

“You are going to Alsace?” asked Faustine. 
“You will leave me. Max — I in Dresden, and you 
on the other side of the Rhine ? Ah, that is too 
far apart.” She had long, sleepy, soft eyes, and 
with these eyes she looked at him now with tender 
sorrow. 

“ I may be useful to my brothers,” said he, “ and 
must arrange that all may be done in good will. 
My mother may have made a Benjamin of my 
youngest brother, who was always her favorite, and 
this will not please Aloise. I suppose each must 
look out for the interest of his own family.” 

“Heavens,” interrupted Faustine, “how revolt- 
ing! No sooner are the eyes that are the most 
revered under God’s sun closed than we throw our- 
selves like vultures, quarreling over a legacy. And 
then people say, ‘ I should never make this dispute 
for myself. Oh, no ! but my children !’ Most peo- 
ple, then, make their children a cause of scandal ?” 

“ Dear Ini, I will try to prevent this with my 
brothers. ” 


Countess Obernau. 


87 


Yes, it is just this that troubles me. Why can’t 
go together quietly to your mother’s grave and 
clasp their hands over it in love and peace? You 
are a great deal too good to be mixed up in their 
quarrels. Let the police do it.” 

Notwithstanding all her earnestness, Audlau re- 
mained steadfast to his resolution. Faustine wept. 
Audlau promised to escort her back as far as Dres- 
den. 

I shall be absent only a lictle while,” he said. 

How cold you are,” she cried, and pushed away 
his hands. 

“ Do you think so ?” he said quietly. 

I really do not see how I love you.” 

I never could see why,” he said. “ I often have 
told you so.” 

But since I do love you,” said the young woman, 
with sweet and flattering voice, “this separation 
seems death to me and — to you.” 

“Why, Faustine,” he said, “you know that my 
life is in yours ; that you are not only my life and 
happiness but also my faith and my hope, and that 
your crystal soul has made mine purer. In you lies 
a world which makes me crave eternity — an eternity 
in which I want but you. You have seemed to me 
God’s most beautiful thought. You know all this, 
and yet question as if you knew nothing. Don’t 


88 


* Countess Obernau. 


make my heart heavy. I miss you far more than you 
do me. You can sit down at your easel and create 
and forget all your sorrow and even all your joy. 
You lose yourself so easily in a world of fantasies, 
and your trouble drops from you. Things, after all, 
are to people what they themselves make them, and 
you are so rich that the world is a Golconda to you. 
A passing sorrow is only a well from which you 
draw new inspirations.” 

“ Yes ; but I don’t like to draw them from such a 
well as this. I can do it when I must, but I would 
rather fold my hands, for it wearies.” 

“ Afterward, sweet one, you will rest with me.” 

“ Ah ! In the meanwhile, I must stand alone.” 

“Sunbeam, rose-scent, my Ini, you are to me. 
Shall you evaporate into your natural element from 
which you sprang, like Venus from the foam ?” 

He then suddenly put her away from him a little, 
just touching her hair, as if it had been the vail of 
a saint, and as if he already feared his prophecy 
that she would vanish. 



r 



CHAPTER XIL 

True to his intention, Audlau escorted Faustine, 
who was unattended, except by her maid, as far as 
Dresden. 

When she was happy, she had a faculty of living 
in the moment, and she was so enchanting during 
the journey, that Audlau almost forgot the sacrifice 
he was making. Some people are more attractive 
to the many ; general approbation gives them en- 
couragement. Others are more charming in the 
tete-h-tete. They are disturbed by many eyes, many 
questions, many comments. This depends, no doubt, 
upon the physical temperament, as well as upon 
special gifts. People who are witty, quick at rep- 
artee, and who have a full-toned voice, feel them- 

[89] 


90 


Countess Obernau. 


selves at ease in a large circle. Where talk is above 
light badinage, where seriousness and feeling are, 
where the tone of voice is low, a smaller audience is 
more welcome. 

Faustine, like nearly all persons who live alone, 
had a low voice. Where there is a regiment of sis- 
ters, with whom one is on equal terms, or of chil- 
dren, who must be commanded, the voice is apt to 
become loud or resounding. It must dominate to 
be heard ; and people carry this habit from their 
homes into society. Those who live more alone, 
without children, without cares, and only on inti- 
mate terms with two or three people, cannot address 
an overflowing drawing-room ; they crave silence. 
Faustine had a low voice, which grew lower the 
more earnestly and penetratingly she spoke. Some- 
times it seemed but an echo of summer winds. And 
although she possessed, at times, to a rare degree, 
the gift of eloquent expression, she rarely addressed 
any one but her neighbor. We can at least be sure 
that that neighbor was captivated. 

If everything in Faustine seemed united to make 
her lovely in Audlau’s eyes, we must know that he 
loved her. It is a difficult thing for a woman to be 
always more attractive than any other — after long 
years perhaps — to the man she loves. Habit is so 
enervating — blows over them such a damp wind. 


Countess Obernau. 


91 


But the thing is easy enough if she is loved, and 
this rare good fortune was Faustine’s. 

Twenty-four hours after their arrival in Dresden, 
Audlau left for his home. Having exhausted every 
word of love and longing tenderness, he said to her 
in parting : 

Now for the end. Ini, don’t forget me.” 

“ What a worn-out jest !’* 

“No jest; you don’t yet know what you may 
forget.” 

“ Oh, all, mein Herz, all ; but not you !” 

She clung to him with violent grief. When the 
door had closed upon him, she sank upon her knees, 
and cried : 

“ He is gone ! Oh, my God, only Thou stay 
near me.” 

She felt herself unspeakably isolated. Her friends 
and acquaintances immediately sought her out and 
invited her, and tried in every way to distract and 
amuse her. 

“ Audlau is gone ; I am devoured with ennuiC she 
said, with unflattering frankness to Frau von 
Eilau, with whom she was on terms of close inti- 
macy. 

“ You would not be more bored with me, than in 
your solitude,” replied the latter, sweetly. “You 
will grow hipped between your four walls; you 


92 


Countess Obernau. 


must shake yourself up a little. It is good for us to 
forget ourselves.” 

Do you think so ? I will come to you, then, 
to-night — if I can conquer myself. There won’t be 
many people ?” 

“ How can I tell ? I don’t invite any one. 
Twenty may come, as well as two. But tell me, 
since when are you so shy of people?” added Frau 
von Eilau, smilingly. 

“ Since Audlau left.” She had no other thought. 

Frau von Eilau had a large, round-table in the 
middle of her salon, about which the ladies sat, 
idling over their fancy-work and chatting. The 
men pushed their chairs in among them with fewer 
words. A little withdrawn was Frau von Eilau ’s 
tea-table, so placed that she could make the tea and 
join in the conversation. On her left a game of 
chess was in progress ; behind her four players 
were stolidly engaged in a game of cards. Her 
salon was rapidly filling. It was a favorite resort 
of a certain coterie. 

“ It is past nine o’clock ; Madame Obernau will 
hardly come now,” she said to Feldern. “ Go and 
see her early to-morrow and make my reproaches 
for me.” 

Perhaps she is ill,” said Feldern. 

“ Not a bit ; only capricious.” 


Countess Obernau, 


93 


“ I shall certainly call upon her to-morrow, and 
should have done so had she not been absent/' 

And how is Cunigunde ?" 

“ Better ; but she recovers very slowly/’ 

“ Does your wedding-day remain unchanged?” 

“ I dare hardly hope it or even wish it. Her 
nerves seem terribly weak.” 

“ That beautiful strong girl ! What a pity ! How 
can such a slight cold make such ravages ?” 

“ The physicians know of no cause except a cold 
she caught in the vintage.” 

“ La Schroeder Devrient is losing her voice,” said 
they at the round table. “ She had an icy reception 
in ‘ Norma.’ ” 

“ Ah, how angry she must have been ! She only 
exists on her triumphs and expects a triumph every 
moment.” 

Naturally. How can these artists know how 
they stand with the public if it makes no sign? 
Malibran, who might have been supposed to 
gauge her own powers, trembled with fear until 
the first burst of applause. Then she felt 
safe.” 

“ Heavens ! What a miserable existence ! Such a 
world-renowned genius dependent upon the moods of 
the public ! And then all other artists make their 
demands upon future generations; but the poor actor 


94 


Countess Obernau. 


has to do only with his contemporaries. Who 
hasn’t seen and heard him cannot know him.” 

The door opened. Faustine came in. Madame 
von Eilau exclaiming : “ The later the hour the 
more beautiful the people,” went forward and kissed 
her. 

Faustine rested both her hands on her friend’s 
shoulders. 

My dear, you are such a clever woman ! Do 
speak your own and not other people’s words.” 

“ Bonsoir C “ How are you ?” “ Delighted to see 
you again !” was interchanged with the rest of the 
party. 

As Faustine entered, the man who was playing 
chess and was engrossed with his pretty companion 
raised his eyes and vrecognized her. It was Count 
Mengen. 

She does look like a beautiful white statue,” he 
thought to himself, holding to his first impressions. 

Faustine was dressed in white. She looked very 
graceful, and yet there was something of coldness 
about her. A great many women dance well, move 
well ; few stand well — the fewest. Wherein this 
lies I do not know ; perhaps from want of the 
habit; perhaps from tight shoes; perhaps from a 
lack of assurance. To stand quietly makes the 
beauty of standing; but it must not be heavily, 


Countess Obernau. 


95 


ponderously. It must be a moment’s rest between 
the past and the coming movement. It must be an 
ephemeral repose, not as if one was rooted to the 
spot. A woman who stands well is like a queen, 
surrounded by her court. 

Late, and with difficulty, she had decided to come, 
but once in society, she was at home. When she 
could not so far win the battle with herself as to 
appear gay and at ease, she remained away. 

“ How glad I am, countess, worthy of all worship, 
that you are once more among us,” said Feldern. 

“God be with you, Herr von Feldern,” replied 
Faustine. “ You might have said worshipful count- 
ess, as even young Tobias said — ‘ I, too, was once 
adored.’ ” 

Mengen listened to her voice. “ She seems merry,” 
he thought to himself ; “ beautiful women are gen- 
erally so bHeC In the meanwhile he was some- 
what neglecting his partner at chess. Lady Gerald- 
ine, who believed that she had been the ne plus ultra 
of amiability, in that she had condescended to show 
herself that evening. 

Faustine sat down near Frau von Eilau, and the 
people who were gathered about the table, in the 
center of the room, hid her from Mengen ’s eyes. 
He could only see her now and then when some 
one moved. He would have given his life to have 


96 


Countess Obernau. 


seen that pretty little head uninterruptedly. It was 
an interesting study through its strange eontradic- 
tions. He moved his ehair first this way and then 
that, but did not help himself, and Lady Geraldine, 
looking at him questioningly, took one of his pawns. 
He had to be patient. That faee so near him and 
yet hidden, rising above the soft laee at her throat, 
had some peeuliar fascination. Each time he looked 
it seemed to make a new impression. 

Faustine’s eyes were serious. They did not look 
about investigatingly ; they were unconcerned. 
They were pure as if there were nothing hateful 
in the world for them to rest upon. 

The eyes of an angel,” thought Mengen. 

But upon her mouth there played a little spirit of 
mockery, and then again a vague smile full of some 
subtle promise. 

“ But the mouth indeed is the mouth of a woman !” 

Lady Geraldine had won the game. Mario stood 
up. 

You allowed me to win,” she said pettishly. “I 
don’t like that. Let us have another game. How 
distrait you are.” 

She liked Mengen and was provoked with him. 
With cheerful fury he obeyed, and played so well, 
that he might have checkmated her in five minutes, 
had she not been his equal in skill. 


Countess Obernau. 


97 


“ So that rich, clever, young fellow, the hest parti 
in Europe, has married that adventuress who is at 
least ten years older,” some one was saying from the 
other side of the room. 

“ So much the sooner will he be sick of her.” 

“ There isn’t any tenderness on her side. All she 
wants is position and money. She can keep some- 
thing of that even if they separate.” 

Bravo ! Consider the possibility of separation 
in the marriage contract. That pleases me — that is 
prudence,” said some one. 

How degrading,” said Faustine, quietly. 

“ Parents must have this security in these days. 
Perhaps in two or three years the play is over, and 
the girl’s whole prospect in life is destroyed.” 

“ Oh, I know very well,” she replied, but how 
dreadful to be mortgaged like a bit of property. 
Can’t a girl, for once, have the confidence that 
neither heaven nor hell can ever separate her from 
her husband, even if this confidence is only to last 
an hour ; even children now have no illusions.” 

“ Well, but if they have them only to lose them 
later ?” 

“ How can one speculate so on one’s own ruin ? 
Ah, well, I have given up the hope of reforming 
others. My own little follies give me too much 
trouble. I haven’t time to heed other people’s.” 


98 


Countess Obernau. 


It is really true that the Prince of X at a 

masked ball presented Herr B with a diploma 

of nobility. Isn’t that too good,” said one of the 
gentlemen. 

I call it scandalous ! Why, he would have pre- 
ferred money.” 

But then nobility is more easily conferred than 
money. There is no more real knighthood in these 
days.” 

“Well,” said Faustine, “there is still some satis- 
faction, I suppose, left to us in a good name.” 

“ I only want an honorable one, gnadigste 
Grdfiny 

“We know that of you, Kirchberg,” replied she, 
smilingly ; “ but oh, how entei taining is the ‘usual 
expression of indifference about titles. ‘ A noble- 
man, indeed !’ say the masses. ^ We can elbow him 
out with our wealth or our merits,’ but when they 
find a title within their own grasp, how quickly 
they wipe the plebeian perspiration from their fore- 
heads and heave the sigh of delight at having 
reached their goal !” 

“ We make ourselves merry over everything,” 
said Kirchberg ; “ but the thing has its melancholy 
side. This aristocracy of wealth is no laughing 
matter. Great names and estates sacrificed for 
money ! Where will the advantage lie ? These 


Co2intess Oberfiau. 


99 


people will only use their fists where we have our 
swords.” 

“ Do you think this craze for power in nations 
and individuals is what is called original sin ?” 
asked Faustine, laughing. 

Oh,” said a young woman, simperingly ; I have 
always wanted an explanation of original sin, and 
now that I have it, tell me, countess, what you 
understand by the sin against the Holy Ghost.” 

'' Stupidity,” said Faustine. 

“ Ah !” said the lady. 

Yes, stupidity which is afraid to learn.” 

“ But when the intelligence is wanting ?” 

“The stupidest people seem shrewd and sharp 
enough when it is to their advantage, and impene- 
trably imbecile only when there is nothing to be 
gained. When men want to understand anything 
they understand it quickly enough.” With these^ 
words Faustine draped herself in her soft wraps 
and glided from the salon. 

As Mario ended with a blissful “check-mate !” and 
looked up, she had vanished. He made an inward 
vow not to see a chess-board for three months, so 
vexed was he, and Lady Geraldine’s assurances that 
she had been well amused were no consolation. He 
had been unable to catch a single word of Faus- 
tine’s ; but it had seemed to him that so lovely a 


/ 


lOO 


Countess Obernau. 


mouth must give them a brevet of interest. He left 
Madame von Eilau's, in the highest sense, out of 
tune. 

Faustine wrote to Audlau letters full of love. 

Oh, come back, dear love. You will say that we were sepa- 
rated often before, but the summer is different. Nature, you 
know, is my element — freedom and beauty — but now I am im- 
mured like a wicked nun. I watch the poor dead leaves blown 
about by every wind, and I am scourged with them, and I do not 
know where I go. How am I not to feel this general desolation. 

I am afraid — yet no one can harm me ; I am cold — yet it is very 
warm in my room. Fearful and trembling, I would like to hide 
myself on thy heart, my friend. I do not know what strange 
anxiety possesses me. To be sure it is always there when you are 
absent; but still I seem to feel some cloud hanging over my 
head, and dare not take a step forward lest I fall into some hid- 
den trap.” 

“ I wrote so far last night, I did not like to end my letter in 
such a gloomy mood. To-day with the sunlight my sad presenti- 
ments have flown. Do not give me a lecture. Do not pay any 
attention to them. I know I am a weather-cock, to be so governed 
by the winds, but if you will consider the small capital of good 
sense I possess, you will be indulgent. I have grown tired of 
these haunting thoughts. I must go to work ; that will banish 
the evil spirits. 

“A dim November sun shines to-day; but the love in my 

heart is not like November. A tout prendre^ Max, I am happy. 

Will that make you so ? _ All I know of hr.ppiness I know through 

you ? God be with you as I am.” 

\ 

She carried out her intentions and threw herself 
ardently into her painting. She painted the whole 
day. She dined very late to lose no time ; then 


Countess Obernau, 


lOI 


drove out at evening to breathe the air, not being 
able to walk in the darkness. When she returned, 
she finished her day with reading. To society she 
made herself invisible. Frau von Eilau, Feldern 
and Count Kirchberg sometimes came to see her in 
the evening. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

How long do yon intend leading this hermit life, 
countess ?” Kirchberg asked her one day. 

“ I don’t know. It ’s so nice — I would like it for- 
ever. One must be occupied, and then my good 
friends do find me out sometimes.” 

“ But we miss you terribly !” 

I hope so,” said Faustine, laughing. 

“ You don’t seem to believe it.” 

“Yes, I believe it very well. I always believe 
pleasant things about myself. I talk more of senti- 
ments, perhaps, than of things, and that is new to 
people and interests them a little. But what is the 
good of being a machine for amusing others ?” 

“ Don’t you think arousing conversation in others 
an advantage ? Why, thousands would envy you. 
Richly gifted people have a responsibility. They 
must dispense their gifts generously — not hide 
them.” 

[102] 


Countess Obernau, 


103 


Ah, dear count, that reproach is not mine,*’ said 
Faustine. I am no miser. If there exists a creat- 
ure always and everlastingly ready to give, I am 
she. When I have nothing else to give, I give the 
truth. Who else does ?” 

Kirchberg smiled. 

“ A little too true, sometimes,” he said. “ You 
can treat people scornfully and impatiently enough.” 

“ Why not, when I discover we could never ac- 
cord ?” 

“ No ; but you do it from the very first.” 

“ Please give me an instance.” 

“ When Feldern begged, day before yesterday, to 
present his friend. Count Mengen, you ill-humoredly 
declined.” 

‘‘ Ill-humoredly ! Oh, that is a Feldemism. He 
is so sensitive, poor fellow ! Because I do not on 
the spot fall into his friends’ arms, I am ill-humored, 
forsooth ! I will meet his Count Mengen with pleas- 
ure when I am in a more genial mood. 

“ Isn’t it inconceivable to you that such an over- 
sensitive fellow as Feldern can support his relations 
to Fraulein von Stein ?” 

Why so ? What has happened ?’ 

Oh, nothing. Only she shows very little longing 
to be his wife.” 

That is as it should be.” 


104 


Countess Ohernau. 


A la bonne Jteure, but she shows the very contrary 
— aversion.” 

Do you really think,” said Faustine, earnestly, 
“ she will not marry him ?” 

Kirchberg shrugged his shoulders. 

“Kirchberg,” she continued, quickly, ‘'go at once 
to Feldern and ask him to come to me.” 

“Will you forbid him to marry her? Can you? 
What have you to say to him on this matter ?” 

“ I shall implore him not to marry her.” 

“ That is of doubtful wisdom, dear countess ; per- 
haps he will not, since I hear the wedding is indefi- 
nitely postponed until Mademoiselle von Stein’s 
recovery, and I believe that will never be. Why 
mix yourself in their relations? If their hearts 
don’t understand each other, why trouble yourself ? 
You will have small thanks.” 

“ Oh, you men of the world !” cried Faustine. 
“ All you want of me is to be a vagabond in society ; 
to talk and dance and play the coquette. When I 
say it bores me you reply : ‘ It is your duty to asso- 
ciate with your fellow-beings.’ And when I wish 
to do so in my own way then you cry : ' Halt ! Don’t 
be too impulsive. Don’t give your hand too heartily. 
Don’t give honest words of kindness or of warning. 
Only flit and dazzle — that is quite enough. Oh, 
Kirchberg, I can’t bear you !” 


Countess Obernmi. 


105 

I don’t blame you, sweet countess, and it is a 
refreshment to meet one like yourself who shows 
herself.” 

“You are unbearable with your flatteries,” said 
Faustine, laughing. “ Unhappily, they are useless. 
To be told something more about poor Feldern 
would please me much better.” 

“ Which unfortunately I can’t do,” replied Kirch- 
berg, and left. 

Already two months had passed and Audlau had 
not returned. He had found the affairs of his dead 
mother in hopeless confusion. His brothers had 
great confidence in him and wished him for arbiter. 

My mother’s estate must be sold,” he wrote Faustine, and 
I maybe detained here till spring. So long must I have patience, 
my dear Ini. Then I am free and doubly happy because I shall 
have purchased my liberty through a sacrifice. I am harassed to 
death, but when I am tired of men and of life I turn to the 
thought of you. You lift me when I doubt. Women have more 
influence over men, than men over women to change a mood. 
They are so subtle that they penetrate into the very veins of a 
man’s being, like balsam or like poison. I sometimes think that 
although it flatters their vanity, women shrink a little from the 
responsibility of their immense influence, but it is not to be 
gainsaid — ” 

Audlau’s words were true enough, for they did 
not alter the mood in which they found Faustine. 
When she received this letter she had come to an 
end of her painting, her reading, her inspirations. 


io6 


Countess Obernau, 


occupations and patience. She took it as impossible 
to continue this sort of life for at least three months 
longer, for not only her body but her mind was 
worn out with the changeless strain and absorption 
of her thoughts. 

If only heaven would send me something beau- 
tiful !” she thought. Oh, I need it !” 

It was dark in her room. She lay on her sofa so 
lost in wakeful dreams that she was almost like 
one asleep. She heard the outer door of the ante- 
chamber open — heard a whisper and a footstep, but 
she did not care to ring and ask what it was ; she 
felt weary. Suddenly it crossed . her mind that 
Audlau might have wished to surprise her with a 
visit and she sprang up. She forced herself, how- 
ever, just as quickly back into her former position. 

I will enter into his plan,” she thought ; I 
will only recognize him when he stands near me.” 

She remained immovable, but her heart beat to 
suffocation and she grew breathless with rapturous 
expectation. The door opened. Hardly had a 
man’s form stepped across the threshold when, al- 
though unable to distinguish, Faustine knew it was 
not Audlau. She rose, rang the bell and asked at 
the same time in a strained, hard voice : 

Who is so kind as to make me this unlooked-for 
visit?” 


Countess Obernau. 


107 


“ 1 1 Please don’t take it amiss,” was tlie answer. 

Clemens Waldorf — my good fellow, you should 
have yourself announced to a lady.” 

I asked your maid if you were at home alone 
and well — ” 

Then you were informed ; but I — What do you 
do here in Dresden?” Her lips trembled ; she was 
deathly pale. 

A lamp was brought and placed on the table near 
her. She was suddenly wonderfully illuminated. 
The rays of light touched her black-satin gown and 
played about her graceful person ; the soft neck, the 
slender hands ; and the colors which were wanting 
in her dress flamed back' suddenly into her lovely 
face. Clemens, who was lost in contemplation of 
her, forgot to reply. 

“ If you please, hand me my work-basket from 
that table,” asked Faustine, after a moment of em- 
barrassed silence. “ As you seem no friend to con- 
versation, perhaps you are no enemy to worsted- 
work.” 

Clemens mastered himself sufficiently to fetch the 
basket, but instead of giving it to her, held it in his 
hands. 

You asked me what I want here ! Well, to look 
at the contents of this little basket. Dare I ?” 

‘‘ Don’t waste your eye-sight over such trifles, 


io8 


Countess Obernau. 


when there is such a world full of beauty.” She 
spoke absently, hardly looking at him. 

Clemens began, notwithstanding, an inventory 
of the work-basket. 

“ Thimble and scissors, prettily made — a scent 
bottle — a pencil of tortoise-shell inlaid with silver — 
very neat, but what an ugly porcelain needle-book !” 

Ugly, unhappy one ! It is adorable. It is rococo.” 

“ Perhaps an heirloom of your grandmothers and 
respectable as such.” 

“We will have nothing ' respectable ^ rococo ’ 
is the modish thing.” 

“ As you like ; only don’t call it beautiful. This 
Russian-leather case, with your visiting-cards, 
pleases me better. Ah, a letter!” (It was Audlau’s 
letter.) “ It must be nice to dare to write you.” 

“ Much nicer to talk with me.” 

“ Are you satisfied with me that I did not write 
to you ?” 

“ I am. Now leave the basket in good order — so. 
That museum has been explored.” 

“ Dresden pleases me immensely,” said Clemens ; 

“ ultimately I shall see the picture-gallery — yours.” 

Feldern’s entrance disturbed his happiness, and 
Faustine’s words did so still more. 

“My anchorite’s mood is over. I shall now go 
out a great deal and shall be very happy if people 


Countess Obei^^iau. 


109 


will come and see me often. Count Mengen, my 
dear fellow, will be most welcome. I am thirsting 
for society, for distraction and for excitement.” 

“ Why did you ever let yourself reach such a 
point, countess ? An artist’s caprice ?” said Feldern. 

“ Although, to be sure, I am only a miserable lit- 
tle dilettante^ I have one similarity to a real artist — 
moments and moods. I do everything by fits and 
starts.” 

“ That is what makes you so interesting.” 

“ Everybody says I am interesting, I should like 
to know what the word means ?” 

“ That you are full of contradictions, I suppose ; 
pathos and merriment and a certain softness with a 
strong courage ; you are moody and yet tender ; you 
have decision, and yet a girl’s grace.” 

“ Have I all these ?” asks Faustine, wearily. 

“ No— far more !” said Clemens, shortly. 

Feldern looked up at him, and Faustine presented 
the two young men, recommending Waldorf to Fel- 
dern’s courtesy. 

He has come to see Dresden,” she said. 

‘‘ Not at all,” said Clemens, again very bluntly. 

“ Pray tell me what you came to see,” replied 
Faustine. 

“ I came to see you, and now that this intention 
has been gratified — ” 


1 lO 


Countess Obernau. 


“ Are you going back to Oberwaldorf ?” 

“ I shall go to bed." 

“ I hope you will be better disposed to-morrow to 
enjoy the city." 

F'eldern gazed after the departing Clemens with 
much amusement. 

“ What a rough diamond !" he said. 

“Yes, he lacks polish ; much is wanting; but, at 
least, he is not perverted. Be friendly to him," 
Faustine sighed. 

“As soon as you will be so to my friend Mengen.” 

“ Oh, he does not need it ; he has been here six 
months and is already well received." 

“ If you knew how much he wants to make your 
acquaintance !" 

“ What does he know about me ?" 

“He has seen you twice ; but only in the dis- 
tance." 

“ Ah," cried Faustine, “ he has seen me ! Then I 
understand." 

Feldern laughed. 

“ Why do you smile, it seems so simple ? Isn’t 
the first impression of a person often enough to make 
us shrink from or wish for the person’s acquaintance. 
We haven’t any prejudices then for or against him. 
I believe that the unconscious soul knows its wants 
and its dangers — it is really shocking that one can’t 


Countess Ober7ia2i. 


Ill 


speak frankly. People attribute everything to 
vanity.’* 

“ If the cap doesn’t fit you, then you needn’t care.** 

*‘No, I can only pity you that you haven’t the 
pleasure of believing in unconsciousness.’* 

“ Ah, countess, one must be very young, very 
inexperienced, or very much in love, to believe in 
it — as far as women are concerned, certainly. There 
lies an abyss of untruth in them.” 

Faustine was surprised at this outburst, as Feldern 
rarely showed any emotion. She wondered what 
might be the rankling wound that led to such an 
unusual bitternCwSS. Before she could find an answer, 
however, Feldern had changed the subject. 

So then to-morrow I can bring you Mengen, and 
you will excuse that I do it early as I am over- 
whelmed with work.” 

After Feldern had left, the poignancy of Faus- 
tine’s disappointment dulled itself into a faint 
heart-ache. She had felt, too, a little inexplicable 
anger against Audlau ; it was rather sustaining than 
otherwise. 




CHAPTER XIV. 

“At last,” said Mario, when he stood before 
Faustine on the following morning. 

“ Just at the right time !” said Faustine. 

Their eyes met and sank into each other’s like 
clasped hands. He spoke unusually little. He let 
Feldern talk, and Kirchberg, whom he found there 
— and Clemens, who came later and listened through 
the general murmur for the melody of her tones ; 
and as he listened he felt that restfulness with 
which we find the long-sought solution of a prob- 
lem. Clemens gazed at her with an impatient fever 
— with a rude dissatisfaction if her eyes rested for 
a moment longer on another than on himself. But 
Mario’s glance enveloped her protectingly, and he 
felt a sense of repose. To-day, in the bright light 
and so near, she seemed to him less dazzling than 
at Frau von Eilau’s — less queenly than on the ter- 
race. Her own room touched her with domesticity. 
She herself and all her surroundings were so quiet 

[II2] 


Countess Obernati. 


1^3 


and so easy. No loud footfalls fell on the rich car- 
pet, and the dark curtains, which hung at the win- 
dows of the salon^ shutting out the sight of snow 
and frost, seemed to give a warm color to the rays 
of the cold winter sun. The door opened into 
another room, of which the windows were also 
heavily curtained and the floor richly carpeted in 
the same soft shades of color. The whole had a 
pleasant atmosphere. The rooms had their indi- 
viduality. A picture hung in the first apartment 
which one sees seldom. It was a well-executed 
copy of “ Christ with the Tribute Money.” Clemens 
inquired if she had painted it. 

“ No,” she answered ; “ I cannot copy. I always 
inadvertently put in something of my own, and 
what a shame that would be in this heavenly 
picture.” 

“ Nothing in the whole gallery has so attracted 
me as this picture,” said Mario. “ This representa- 
tion of Christ seems to meet one’s idea of His 
spirituality and grandeur.” 

“ I am so glad,” said Faustine. “ So few people 
share my predilections. People usually prefer the 
Christ of Guido Reni or Carlo Dolce. Of course, it 
depends upon one’s own conception. It seems to 
me heaven and earth were .never portrayed before, 
in a small space, with such truth and simplicity.” 


Countess Obernau, 


114 


“ Can heaven and earth really come so near each 
other?” 

“Oh, always — always!” said Fanstine, warmly; 
“always inseparable and yet as widely apart as 
Christ and the Pharisee. As widely apart as when 
they appear to blend at the horizon. Minds touch, 
but souls are divided.” 

“ And united ?” 

“ Oh, that I call love.” 

A sudden pallor overspread Feldern’s features. 
He stood up and made his adieux, somewhat shortly. 
Faustine looked at Kirchberg questioningly. He 
met with such a diplomatic inscrutable visage that 
she feared she had asked too much. Mengen saw 
her embarrassment and quietly came to her rescue. 

“ That engagement will be broken. They don’t 
suit each other. It was clear from the first moment.” 

“ They say — ” said Kirchberg. 

“It isn’t true,” said Faustine. 

“ What, graceful countess ?” he asked, surprised. 

“ All on dits are once and forever untrue,” she re- 
plied. 

“ Perhaps — I hope so. Nevertheless, people do say 
that a liaison de bas dtage makes the marriage im- 
possible.” 

“ Kirchberg,” said Faustine, tremulously, “ how 
dare you speak so of a young girl — how dare your 


Countess Obernau. 


115 


lips ! Women seem to have lost the respect of men, 
et elles vous le rendent bien ! But in pity spare the 
young girls. If they are not pure, what is ? If men 
see in them only the crude, the unfinished, I must 
see the untouched and the unsullied. Ah, I wish 
every girl died in her eighteenth year !” 

“ This wish finds no response in the young ladies' 
breasts," laughed Kirchberg. 

“ I don’t mean young ladies. They may live to 
be old ones ; I mean young girls." 

“ I don’t follow the subtle difference." 

“ No difference !’’ cried Faustine, clasping her 
hands. “ Dear Waldorf, Count Mengen, don’t men 
make a difference between a girl and a young lady !" 

Clemens looked at Faustine fixedly and silently. 
He was certainly far too indifferent to all women to 
make any distinction ; nor was he accustomed to 
this kind of badinage, this game between earnest 
and jest, which seemed Faustine’s element. He 
always spoke from his heart or not at all. Mengen, 
on the contrary, met her on her own ground. 

Why, the girl is fresh from heaven," he said, 
“and would gladly fly back to her home, but a 
young lady has been at earth’s school and has 
learned to fold her white wings so that they may 
not interfere, and she intends to graduate in all the 
classes." 


Countess Obernau. 


1 16 


“ Yes, you have it,” said Faustine. “ These men 
here should be thankful to you that you spoke them 
free from their touch of blindness^” 

“ We are not blind,” said Clemens • “we only do 
not see what does not interest us.” 

“ Really,” said Faustine, “ I thought it was we 
women who were so one-sided, and that men an- 
alysed on a large scale. By parenthesis, be it said, 
that is one reason why they are so unbearably 
fatiguing.” 

“Thanks,” said Mario, laughing. 

“ They are so indifferent, so without freshness, 
enthusiasm — all that burns in the blood — so weary- 
ing with their endless baggage of sophistries, com- 
mon-places and prudences. It is only we who go to 
battle without armor, fearless of consequences.” 

“Oh, countess,” cried Mario; “men have more 
enthusiasm than women. I don’t mean a mo- 
mentary exaltation ; but that tenacity that keeps 
one straight line in steadfast view ; the unswerving 
mind — the one possessing idea that pursues its de- 
sire with a perseverance of which all power and 
warmth are born.” 

“You mean character,” said Faustine. 

“ Ah, well ! What sustains character, if not en- 
thusiasm? One wouldn’t have only the mule’s per- 
severance, plodding over the mountain between 


Countess Obernau, 


117 


his two burdens. No, rnen seem to me oftener in- 
spired by enthusiasm than women.” 

And the prophetesses of Israel and the death- 
despising Roman women ?” 

“ I agree to all that. But, after all, it was only 
the personal love for lover, country or God. A 
woman will die for her lover, but never make him 
immortal, as Petrarch did Laura, or Dante, Beatrice. 
What woman has ever had the patience to wrest 
knowledge from science — to upheave the world? 
They amuse themselves for a little while in the 
pursuit of some idea, more through caprice or for 
the love of intrigue than through real enthusiasm. 
What woman ever said with Galileo : ‘ Pur si muove f 
And only fancy Socrates in petticoat ! I must, how- 
ever, confess to their influence over us. When a 
man is ruined, it is always through a woman.” 

Oh, Count Mengen,” cried Faustine, “ you are 
terribly partial to your own sex. The same thing 
may be reversed.” 

“ A woman can elevate a ruined and fallen man. 
Can this, too, be reversed ?” 

“ A degraded woman rarely rises. A bad man 
ruins her too utterly for a good man ever to redeem.” 
She paused, and then added, as if to herself : ‘‘ Is 
our influence stronger for good than evil ?” 
Clemens, who had silentlj^ listened^ looked up. 


ii8 


Countess Obernau. 


Neither,” he said. If you order me to pull 
one man up out of the water and throw another 
one in, I do both with equal gratification.” 

Heaven deliver me from such a blindly devoted 
friend. No one wants to infiuence a machine. I 
rid myself of all further infiuence OYer you 

Faustine shrugged her shoulders with a little 
shiver. 

“You have it unwittingly.” 

“ I won’t have it,” she cried, drawing herself to- 
gether as one does from contact in a crowd. 

Mario felt that it was time for him to leave. He 
feared to be importunate in his first visit. 

“ If she were only not speaking — if she were only * 
not moving — if she were only another — how easy 
to go,” he thought to hiniself. 

Kirchberg had made his farewells. Now Clemens 
departed. At last Mengen conquered himself and 
rose. 

“ Feldern told me some time since that you were 
too much occupied with your art to find pleasure in 
society. When I asked him what you painted he 
answered : ‘ Trees.’ Will you not have the sweet- 
ness to let me see these trees which have been over- 
shadowing you so long ?” 

“ Did Feldern say ' trees ?’ How funny ! And 
how cruel only to see trees in my pictures ! If you 


Countess Obernau, 


T19 


will come some morning I will show them to 
you.” 

To-morrow?"' 

“ Oh, well, to-morrow.” 

He seemed as elated as Clemens had been annoyed. 
Faustine thought : “ What an agreeable man ! Why 
didn’t I know him sooner? I have to thank my 
own folly. It ’s a mistake. It has brought me no 
good. Even the cholera shouldn’t prevent us from 
making interesting acquaintances.” 




CHAPTER XV. 

Feldern rode along the lonely Chaussee, all the 
well-known way to his fiancee s. At the house he 
first met her father, and asked hurriedly for Cuni- 
gunde. 

“ She is no better,” said Herr von Stein, sorrow- 
fully ; “ come to her.” He led Feldern to her little 
fresh girl’s room. Cunigunde was sitting by a table, 
reading the Bible. “ How do you feel, my child ?” 
asked her father, putting his hand gently under her 
chin. 

“Very well, dear father,” she replied, kissing his 
hand. 

“You are not going to die yet, are you, my good, 
pious little one ?” touching the book and then strok- 
ing her cheeks and hair. 

“Why, no, dear papa,” she said, looking at him 
^vith a certain melancholjr tenderness, 

[ 1 20 ] 



Countess Obernau, 


I2I 


“Feldern is here. Dare he come in?” continued 
her father. 

Suddenly a shudder of fear seemed to shake the 
girl. 

“Yes,” she said, and the father left them alone. 

“ Well, Cunigunde,” said Feldern, and sat down 
opposite to her. 

“ Good evening, Feldern,” was all she said. She 
seemed unspeakably agitated. 

“ Have you nothing further to say to me ? Can 
you feel no confidence in me ? Only speak — give 
me a reason.” 

“ I talk myself weary, and I have no reason.” 

“ And so you insist, through a caprice — through a 
mood, in throwing me over — your true, proved, tried 
friend, whom you had accepted as your future hus- 
band ?” 

“ No mood — O, God !” said the girl, and wrung 
her hands. 

“ Speak out the why. As soon as I know what 
comes between us I will overcome it, or renounce 
you. It seems to me now like some fixed idea, like 
some sickness of the mind, and I have no courage 
to sacrifice my happiness, my future, possibly yours, 
to a childish whim.” 

“ I know you mean to be kind and reasonable ; I 
thoroughly understand you— better than I do my- 


122 


Countess Obe7'nau. 


self. But the why I cannot give you ; only I cannot 
marry you.’' 

'‘Then there is only this: You love someone 
else.” 

“Your monomania — ^which I have a hundred 
times denied.” 

“ Another of whom you are ashamed, or who is 
unworthy of you — Is it a disgrace to love ? Why 
don’t you name him?” 

“ I love no one.” 

Feldern sprang to his feet with hot impatience 
and walked up and down the little room. At last 
he stopped, facing the girl. 

“Whom do you intend to marry?” he asked 
huskily. 

“ No one,” said Cunigunde, looking at him 
strangely, “ and you know it. If I wanted to marry, 
the simplest thing would be to marry you, whom I 
respect — who are brave and honest, and have loved 
me — ” 

“ Cunigunde !” cried Feldern, tenderly putting 
his arm around her shoulders and bending down 
to her; but his kiss scarcely touched her cheek 
before she turned her head, closed her eyes and 
said in anguish : 

“ Have mercy !” 

Doubly wounded, Feldern allowed his arm to sink. 


Countess Obernau. 


123 


“You are lying or mad,” lie said, almost brutally. 

“No lie ; my words are the truth. I do not for- 
get my esteem for you ; only this gave me courage 
to beg you to release me from my promise.” 

“Then, if not madness, it is mere perverseness. 
Some over-strained sentimentality. What do you 
want? To become a Catholic and take the veil? 
Has the religious mania hold of you?” 

“ I don’t wish to be a nun — never !” she said ; 
and such a fresh, rosy blush of life over-spread her 
whole face, that Feldern, in spite of his bewildered 
discouragement, smiled. 

“ It would, indeed, be a pity for you to have a 
vocation ; but now what is to become of us?” 

“ What God wills.” She clasped her hands upon 
the Bible and bowed her head. 

“ How is His will to reveal itself, when you close 
your ears and heart to the prayers of your best 
friends ? 

“ My best friends ? Ah, it ’s just that, I have no 
friends.” 

“Your parents — myself — ” 

“ Yes, dear Feldern ; and it is unfortunate that 
this very circumstance brings you too near to be 
impartial. My parents ! Ah, my poor father, who 
wants every one to be happy, and who does every- 
thing my mother wants ; and my mother is a clever 


Countess Obernau. 


1 24 


woman and a good woman, too ; she means well by 
us all, and by me. She says I am poor, and what 
more do I want than to marry a nice fellow ; I am 
the beauty of the family and a disadvantage to my 
sisters too, you know. Oh, no, I have no friends, 
and I know no one I want for a friend — except 
perhaps — ” 

“ Whom ?” he asked, with breathless eagerness ; 

Count Mengen, perhaps?” 

‘‘Whom did you say?” said Cunigunde, distraite. 

“ Count Mengen, who was here with me once in 
the late summer.” 

“ Oh, no ; it is no man ; it is a woman — a heavenly 
woman you introduced me to last winter at the Bal 
Masque — Countess Obernau. I only saw her that 
once, but I can never forget her. The expression 
of her eyes, how she moved and stood — how she 
spoke and smiled, always reminds me of Goethe’s 
‘ Das Madchen aus der Fremde^ and I wish I could be 
a poor bergWe to go to her with a gift.” 

“Dear Cunigunde, you are really a little over- 
strained. You have sentiment enough in you ; but 
it seems to me you think it higher and purer to be 
exalted about another woman. Countess Obernau 
is certainly an uncommonly lovely person ; but 
every one cannot do as she does with life. She 
could not serve as a model to you,” 


Coimtess Obernatt, 


125 


“ I don’t expect to be like her, I only wish that 
she loved me. Don’t you wish it for yourself?” 

Feldern could not help laughing. 

“ Not in the least, although we are the best of 
friends. Would you like to go to see her? I am 
sure she will be pleased. I believe the monotony 
of your life here is affecting your nerves. Perhaps 
this little distraction will do you good. Dear child, 
I would so gladly see you strong again and happy.” 

Cunigunde gave him her hand gratefully, pleased 
with his proposition. She hardly knew what she 
hoped, but felt as if moving toward freedom and 
heaven. Her beautiful face, which was ennobled 
by its expression of settled sadness, was suddenly 
lit up with a new hope. They parted with more 
friendliness than for months past. 

“ Faustine may have peculiar views,” thought 
Feldern, “and not be entirely practical on many 
social questions ; but no one is less sentimental. In 
her clear breath Cunigunde ’s exaltation must fall, 
and, this once past, I am sure of her. She has never 
had an inclination for any other, and her tempera- 
ment is cold. These make the best wives. Women 
whom a man can depend upon — without vagaries— 
without fear-inspiring seductions. They don’t fire 
the heart, but they always please. Faustine has 
more dangerous charm, but who would dare to 


126 


Countess Obernau. 


marry her? Not even Audlau. A man feels him- 
self so stupid, so inferior, in the atmosphere of such 
women.” 

Perhaps Feldern did not realize that there may 
lurk in the love of such a woman a reward for all 
humiliation. Who has solved the secrets and sor- 
ceries of its influence or its intoxication ! A strong- 
man is not afraid to look up to his beloved. He feels 
in himself the power with one effort to stand at her 
side. The weak vain man likes to keep her to his 
own level ; he fears to be eclipsed, and knows he 
lacks the strength to cast a counter-weight into the 
balance. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

Mengen did not fail to present himself at Faus- 
tine’s on the following morning. The servant ush- 
ered him into the salon. It was deserted. Mario 
crossed it, and penetrated into the second apart- 
ment, of which yesterday he had but seen the 
entrance. Near one of the windows was her writing- 
table. Upon it stood a portrait of Audlau. It was 
painted with rare beauty and exactitude — a thought- 
ful, earnest, melancholy head. Is one not gayer 
when near her ?” thought Mario. In the embrasure 
of the other window stood a shelved table piled 
with books, near which was a deep low chair. On 
the other side was drawn a broad cushioned otto- 
man, on which lay a black-lace scarf. The heavy 
dark-red curtains gave a warm, soft light to the 
whole room. A room is the overflow of individual- 

1127] 


128 


Countess Obernau, 


ity. It vaguely divulges secrets, and something of 
its owner’s spirit has been forgotten there. Mario 
sank peacefully in the corner of the sofa. Faustine 
seemed present to him. 

“ Did some one speak ?” said her golden voice 
from a half-open door. 

“ I await your commands,’' said Mario, stepping 
toward the voice and entering a small atelier fitted 
up for painting purposes. There was but one win- 
dow, shaded from below. Pictures, drawings, etch' 
ings, sketches, covered the bare walls. No furni- 
ture except several easels, a couple of tables, on 
which were scattered maps, drawing materials, a 
skull, plaster casts of arms and legs, and two straw 
chairs, also encumbered with artists’ utensils. 

Sit down,” said Faustine. She was at her easel, 
working. 

“ Rather a difficult matter,” said Mario, looking 
about him. 

“ If you don’t feel comfortable here, wait for me 
in the drawing-room. Ten minutes, and I will 
have finished this sketch.” 

I must make the best arrangement possible,” 
and he very gracefully bent one knee before her. 

“That will do,” she continued, and went on 
painting. He watched her. Her dress was the 
most disadvantageous in the world. A bit of white 


Countess Obernau. 


129 


muslin was tied back over her hair, so as almost 
entirely to conceal it. She wore a coarse gray 
apron and manchettes. For any other woman it 
would have been an abjuring of all vanity to have 
been seen in such a costume. Faustine was ab- 
sorbed in her picture ; she seemed to forget her 
gray apron — or was she coquettishly conscious that 
it was not absolutely unbecoming? She sat silent, 
her lips a little parted, as if she were listening ; her 
eyes half shaded by their white lids, as if to rest 
themselves. Turtle-doves have this way. At last, 
Mario came close to her, and looked at her work — 

“ Why are you painting that death’s head ! What 
do you know of death — you who are all light and 
warmth ?” 

“ I would like to paint life, too,” she replied ; “but 
nothing occurs to me but a mass of flowers, through 
which the death’s head is still seen. You are quite 
right. I have nothing to do with death — so little that 
I don’t even understand it. To go from one form 
of existence to another — is that death ? Why, it is 
only development. Ah, one must live as one loves 
—through eternity. Who hasn’t this conviction 
knows nothing of love or of life. I am a great 
enemy of death. But we must not begrudge the 
poor body its rest in the grave, although it grows 
ugly like my old death’s-head here.” 


130 


Countess Obernati. 


“ And, pray, why do you grant the body the rest 
which the mind needs so much more ? Twenty-four 
hours obliterate the remembrance of physical pain. 
What is bodily fatigue after all ? After two nights 
of dissipation there is sleep as a pleasant antidote. 
But that weariness of mind that follows over-excite- 
ment — what paralysis ! How difficult to rem* 
edy !” 

“ Oh, but the mind has its joy, its amusement, its 
compensations, and the poor body nothing of all 
that. What a slave it is to the mind ! It no sooner 
has set its table to enjoy than its horrid tyrant sits 
down and sips all the froth off the champagne — all 
the sweetness from the dainties (through some disa- 
greeable thought, you know), while its meek servant 
stands behind the chair in disappointment. And 
now I have ended my sketch, you shall see the prom- 
ised ‘ trees.’ ” 

She rose, placed a picture on the easel and said : 

‘‘ Sit here.” 

A crag rose from the sea, precipitate and lonely. 
Beneath it, to the right, with interlacing branches, 
stood two trees — a fir and a birch. They formed a 
somber foreground to the scene. The birch was 
leafless ; its white slenderness seemed to shiver and 
tremble in the storm. The fir spread its branches 
over it like protecting arms. The sky was cold, icy. 


Countess Obernau. 


131 


gray ; to the west it faded into a copper tint. Be- 
neath slumbered the sea. 

After a little time Faustine placed another picture 
on the easel. It was the same subject, but in spring- 
time, in a morning light. The birch, fresh and glow- 
ing in sunlight, adorned the dark fir-tree with its 
waving leaves as with festive garlands. 

“ Do you like that ?” 

Ah !" he said. “ You know how to paint. You 
weave a poem into your pictures. I don’t wonder 
that Feldern and a thousand others see only a 
pretty landscape. There is a Sancrit too deep some- 
times for the comprehension of the connoisseur.” 

At that moment Clemens came in. 

“ I know that fir !” he cried, looking at the picture 
while the other two were still standing near. “ I re- 
member it ; you drew it quickly in one of our walks 
at Oberwaldorf. How glad I am that you have re- 
membered something of that time — if not of people, 
at least of a tree.” 

I try to keep everything that is worth remem- 
bering,” said Faustine. 

“ Or hoping?” asked Clemens. 

“ Better still.” And she now moved as if to in- 
vite the gentlemen to leave the atelier. 

Mario and Clemens already disliked each other 
cordially with that vague antagonism which forms 


132 


Countess Obernau. 


a sort of tie between two persons who have a care 
for a third in love or in hate. We will love the 
brother — the friend of the beloved one ; but let any- 
one dare approach them with our own measure of 
adoration ! Clemens hated Mario and was jealous 
of him. He felt that Count Mengen could please 
her better. He possessed the savoir faire which she 
liked. Mario had stared for a moment at the young 
fellow whose brusque manner and undisguised ex- 
pression of every emotion had at first somewhat 
amused him ; then had turned away, hardly think- 
ing him worth a second thought. Since, however, 
he noticed that Clemens seemed to jar on Faustine, 
he resented the annoyance for her, although the 
boy’s roughness only enhanced by contrast the 
young woman’s exquisite elegance and delicacy. 

“ How dreadful men are when they come from 
college,” she once had said ; “ so inflated with their 
own importance and utterly ignorant of everything 
that makes a man tolerable. What have they to 
be so conceited about, I wonder? That they were 
drunk once or twice, that they did not lose their 
head in every examination, and that their promise 
of a fine beard has been appreciated by some uni- 
versity-town beauty?” 

Clemens, who was rather proud of his beard, was 
justly irritated. 


Countess Obernau. 


133 


How I love good manners,” slie continued. 
“ One feels so safe and comfortable where they are. 
Where they are wanting I always try to be doubly 
courteous. At last, however, one grows constrained 
— uneasy — angry. One could cry out as if from 
some blow.” 

“ What do you call bad manners ?” asked Clemens. 
Not knowing when one is a bore,” she answered, 
half-closing her eyes. 





CHAPTER XVIL 

Feldern kept his word with Cunigunde. He 
begged Faustine to receive his fiancee. 

I feel sure of your excellent influence on her 
sentimental little head,” he said. 

Faustine looked at him narrowly. 

“You would like to set its limits, however, and I 
must know what is expected of me. Why not be 
more frank ? Am I to give Fraulein von Stein hints 
upon the art of painting?” 

“ She doesn’t paint, and it is a friend she looks for 
in you — not a teacher.” 

“ Very well ; I thank Mademoiselle von Stein al- 
ready for her trust. But don’t forget I am not the 
person to keep back my own opinions, and if I am 
asked advice, nothing can prevent me from giving 
it out of my own convictions, whether it please or 
no. Bring the girl,” she said. 

Cunigunde was charmed with the permission; 
[134] 


Countess Obernau. 


135 


Frau von Stein satisfied to find that anything could 
awaken her daughter from her unnatural apathy ; 
Herr von Stein very willing to take her into Dres- 
den and to procure a little amusement for her. 

Faustine, on her part, thanked heaven that people 
seemed sent to occupy her. 

Mario came almost daily. Had she wished it, he 
would have spent his every hour with her. Their 
discussions were arousing and interesting, even if 
they did not always agree. They did not deal in 
common-places, these two. From this comradeship 
she sometimes awoke to a strange sense that he was 
much in her thoughts. Sometimes there welled in 
the man’s words a sort of passion that surrounded 
him with a dangetous magnetism. She thought of 
him — yes — and more than she wished. Of course, 
it was only to admire his gifts. 

It is a distraction like any other,” she said to 
herself. 

Clemens, too, was constantly there, and he wearied 
and annoyed her more than of old. In the last 
days of Oberwaldorf it had been borne in upon her 
that he had a strong inclination for her ; but she 
believed that her own conduct must have bereft him 
of all hope and shown him the absurdity of his 
sentiments. When he arrived in Dresden she ex- 
pected to find him entirely cured of his foolish 


136 


Countess Obernau. 


dreams ; and, not believing in a lasting love with- 
out reciprocity, she thought it a kindness to open 
the doors of the world for him a little and shield 
his inexperience from bad influences. But things 
did not arrange themselves. Clemens had in no 
wise forsworn the folly that possessed him. Faustine 
was still to him the unspoken mystery of happiness 
and of beauty, to which we all aspire. She only 
made it clear to him ; and the creature who lifts us 
into this heaven of joy do we not love? Is love 
other than the revelation of endless beauty and 
immortal joy ? So thought Clemens in the long, 
lonely days which followed Faustine ’s departure 
from Oberwaldorf. That she did not love him 
seemed perfectly natural to him. He asked him- 
self in his humility, “What am I to win it? Is it 
not my bliss to give her my love ? I won’t have 
hers. She must take my heart, even if she tramples 
it in the dust. Ah, but she will not do that ! She 
must know the worth of a heart, since God does, 
and she is godlike.” So he came out of the same- 
ness of his narrow life — to Dresden. 

Here he saw Faustine amid quite different sur- 
roundings. She was courted, admired, worshiped. 
Men and women wanted to know her. Whoever 
approached her brought homage. It seemed to him 
that every man loved her and laid himself at her 


Countess Obernau. 


137 


feet. What was he? Why should one so spoiled 
look at him ? He was lost in the throng. He was 
jealous like a child without an object, without rea- 
son. This watching, waiting eagerness made him 
discontented with himself and a source of irritation 
to Faustine, who could not find a reason to abso- 
lutely dismiss him. Sometimes when he was alone 
with her his devotion touched her, and she was kind 
and friendly as was her wont ; but Clemens at once 
became so enraptured that she was forced to dampen 
his ardor a little by showing the same warmth to 
other friends. 

The hardest for Clemens to bear was the ap- 
proach of the hated Mario, who Clemens at once 
recognized as aspiring to something more than 
ordinary friendship. He gave way then to expres- 
sions of anger and of bitterness, before unknown to 
his straight, sweet nature, and the lack of policy 
which betrayed his mood made him half ridiculous. 

Faustine had hopes that the fear of ridicule in 
one not devoid of pride would induce him to assert 
some self-control. But his passion ignored all wis- 
dom, and at last Faustine was forced to treat him 
with decided coldness, and he came less often. 
Once she asked him what he did with his time. 

“ I have met some artists,” he said. I want to 
be a painter.” 


138 


Countess Obernau. 


She laughed, glad, however, that he had found 
some occupation. 

Cunigunde came. Faustine received her with 
that charming warmth which was always hers 
when interested. They were lovely to look upon — 
these two. Cunigunde wore her hair closely bind- 
ing her noble patrician head. It framed a face 
more pale from anguish than from illness. The 
girlish lips were firmly closed ; they had seldom 
smiled — never kissed. The long eyes, generally 
downcast, revtealed, when the lids were raised, a cer- 
tain mystery, as of the night, in their dark depths. 

Faustine, beside her, seemed a breath of the 
dawn — a crystal reflecting a thousand subtle pris- 
matic colors. Only a poet could appreciate her 
head ; Cunigunde’s, a sculptor. 

Not the night alone, but the day, too, has its se- 
crets. Who can look up into the sky on a summer’s 
noon and penetrate its depth ? It is as if a golden 
veil trembled before one’s vision ; and this atmos- 
phere surrounded Faustine — separated her from 
others. She was the graceful, easy woman of the 
world ; but she was something more than this. 
Two things blended in her which are rarely 
united — passion and imagination. There hung 
about her very garments, as it were, the perfume 
of some tropic flower. 


Countess Obernau, 


139 


This atmosphere melted at once the icy-chains 
that had bound the girl’s heart, just as it had 
burned Mario’s free wings. 

Cunigunde told Faustine her short and sad story, 
how, four years since, she had willingly engaged 
herself to Feldern and now found it impossible to 
marry him, and was considered to be ill or mad 
because she had no good reason for her change of 
mind. 

“ They call me hypochondriac,” she said, with an 
unspeakable expression of melancholy ; “ but I only 
fear a burden that I shall be unable to shake off.” 

Your mind is perfectly clear,” said Faustine ; 
“you understand yourself. Have you spoken to 
Feldern as reasonably as to me ?” 

“ So often ; but he does not understand Men 
have not our delicacy.” 

“We have more tact and finer perceptions, but 
when a man loves — and that happens oftener than 
we women will admit,” said Faustine, the sudden 
thought of Audlau filling her with tenderness, “ I 
believe they can learn to approach a woman like a 
sensitive plant and to understand her thoroughly, 
and to feel as quickly as we do the approach of the 
slightest discord. Love gradually inspires this 
divination — but it must be loveC 

“ Feldern loves me — he says.” 


140 


Cotcntess Obernau. 


“Yes, yes,” said Faustine, quickly, and a shade of 
Ciinigunde’s melancholy fell upon her. Memory 
swept over her its sad dreams. “ Men love in many 
ways, and there is one that makes us more wretched 
than ever would their hate. Of that kind I will 
not speak,” she almost whispered ; “ I could only 
curse it.” She covered her face with her hands and 
then threw her head back suddenly, tossing the 
hair from her forehead, as if to rise from a flood of 
remembrances, or as if wishing to wipe out some 
haunting ghost of the past. “ Don’t be frightened, 
child, at my words,” she begged, sweetly. “ I have 
a fever in me sometimes. It gives me golden 
dreams and also hideous nightmare. Ah, well, 
this last comes more and more rarely. Let us talk 
of you. What will be the attitude of your family 
toward you if you break your engagement ?” 

“ I will have to break with them at the same time. 
My mother is unaccustomed to disobedience and 
she desires my marriage.” 

“ And?” asked Faustine, as Cunigunde paused. 

“ I have no prospects and no hopes ; my future is 
impenetrable to me. It seems only battle and 
trouble. In a marriage with Feldern I shall find 
only misery.” 

“ Ah,” said Faustine, “ your life looks happy. How 
little we know of each other’s troubles ! There 


Countess Obernau. 


141 


seems to be some poison in every fate, and we can- 
not save each other. How powerless is the experi- 
ence of one to help another !” 

They talked long, like old friends. It was a com- 
fort to the girl’s reticence to speak so freely. She 
stayed all day with Faustine. She sang to her, and 
not in that cold, soulless voice with which she had 
once sung in acquiescence with her lover’s wish, 
but as people sing when the heart overflows. 

Faustine, listening to her, wondered how she 
could help the maiden. She wondered if Audlau 
would disapprove of her interference in such a 
delicate matter; then, if she was doing Feldern 
any injustice. '' He must know the truth,” she 
said to herself. And just as she thought of him he 
came in. 

Cunigunde changed instantly — became embar- 
rassed, shy and haughty. She left the piano, breath- 
less and disconcerted. 

‘‘ I don’t see why my father doesn’t come for me. 
It is late,” she said. 

Fortunately, Herr von Stein soon arrived. He 
would have accepted Faustine’s graceful invitation 
to remain to dinner had not his daughter objected. 
She begged Faustine to allow her to come another 
time when she would find her alone, and made her 
adieux. 


142 


Comitess Obernau. 


“How do 3"ou find Cunigunde, countess?'* asked 
Feldern, expectingly. 

“ As beautiful as she is lovable and reasonable.’* 

i 

“ Reasonable ! Then she hasn’t been honest with 
you.” \ 

“ Yes, she has.” 

“ She is ashamed of her folly ?” 

“Feldern,” cried Faustine, with violence, “the ' 

folly of that child is melancholy wisdom.” 

“Take care you don’t mistake her vague senti- | 
mentality for the force of feeling.” > 

“ Cunigunde is calm and collected enough — as far 
as any girl of twenty can be. She does not choose 
to marry a man she does not love, and I call that 
reasonable.” 1 

“ She was willing to do so for four long years.” j 

“ Rather say during those years she has fathomed I 
her mistake.” ^ 

“ How often is it allowed a woman to make such 
mistakes ?” asked Feldern, bitterly. 

“ Allowed — never ; to be forgiven — always,” she I 
answered very gently. ' 

Feldern was silent, and this earnest interview 
was interrupted by the unwelcome entrance of 
Clemens, who, casting an angry glance on Feldern 
and a reproachful one at Faustine, drew forth a 
chair, sat down and asked, irritably : 


Countess Obernau. 


143 


“ Do I disturb you ?” 

“Yes,” said Faustine. 

“ Our conversation can be taken up again at any 
moment,” said the good-natured Feldern, coming 
to the rescue. 

“ I am thankful,” said Clemens. “ I have been 
besieging your door, in vain, twice to-day — at noon 
and at four. I was told you were out. Now when 
I passed your house and saw a light in your win- 
dows, I ventured again, expecting again, however, 
the same answer.” 

“ But you were mistaken, as* you generally are,” 
said Faustine, indifferently, passing over his im- 
pertinence, while Feldern sat speechless and all 
eyes. She turned to the latter and engaged him 
at once in a conversation upon general topics. A 
moment’s pause gave Clemens an opportunity to 
ask, humbly : 

“You have been ill to-day. Countess Faustine?” 

“ No, I am perfectly well,” she replied coldly, 
and once more addressed Feldern, with a remark 
upon the wearisome chatter of a woman of their ac- 
quaintance. 

“ How she misuses words,” she said, “ and what 
an exaggeration and waste of adjective ! Why 
can’t people understand that this only weakens 
everything they say ? When a person who writes 


M4 


Countess Obei'nau. 


to me, ‘ Ini,’ or ‘ Dear Ini,’ suddenly addresses me, 
‘ My dear Faustine,’ I know what to expect — at last, 
‘ Honored countess ’ — and the end of the correspond- 
ence.” 

“ Has that ever happened to you ?” asked Clemens, 
unwisely trying to mingle in the talk from which 
Faustine seemed determined to exclude him. She 
would not look at him, and, beside himself, Clemens 
could only regret the childish explosion of his 
jealous anger. When they were alone Faustine 
rose. 

‘‘Good night, Herr von Waldorf,” she said to the 
young fellow, who sat rooted to his chair. 

“ ‘ Herr von Waldorf ?’ ” he asked, bewildered. 

“Yes, I mean you.” 

“ And what have I done to you that you treat me 
like a stranger and dismiss me — except hang the 
whole day about your door-step?” 

“You have done nothing to me — know this once 
for all. The affront does not hurt me, but yourself. 
Your mauvais ton is worse for you than for me. It 
simply proves an extraordinary lack of refinement. 
I could treat you like a child and forbid you every 
improper word, if it were not too fatiguing to play 
nurse to a grown-up man. As I don’t care to do 
this, I will receive you henceforth in the most for- 
mal way, and perhaps you will then remember the 


Countess Obernau. 


145 


limits you seem so disposed to overstep. You can 
imagine that a person who forces me to this must 
sooner or later become distasteful to me. Men are 
by nature stupid and tiresome enough, and if they 
have acquired neither tact nor manners, heaven 
defend me from their society.” 

Clemens wrung his hands. 

“ How can a word spoken in jest — ” 

“ No one understands jesting better than I,” inter- 
rupted Faustine, “ and I therefore understand very 
well that you were not in jest, or else your jest falls 
into the absurd.” 

She laughed, and Clemens cried, relieved : 

God be thanked !” 

“ I am such a good friend to my friends,” said the 
young woman, in her low, dreamy tones once more. 
“ Don’t force me to be a taskmaster — that is for 
one’s enemies.” 

“ Oh, you are an angel of heaven !” cried Clemens, 
transported, seizing her hand— “but,” as Faustine 
withdrew it, “ so cruel !” 

“ Have you ever seen any other man grab my 
hand in this way?” asked Faustine, beginning to 
feel annoyed. 

“ No ; but no one loves you as I do.” 

“ Everybody loves me better than you do. Others 
try not to displease and tire me.” 


146 


Comitess Obernau. 


“ But could you not make a little difference for 
one ?" 

“ And why, pray ?” 

“ Because he loves you.” 

“ That does not suffice. I may not reciprocate it.” 

She sat on the sofa, buried in its depths, toying 
with a ring she drew back and forth on her finger, 
her head half turned away from him. 

“ So far away — so far away,” thought Clemens. 
The young fellow felt suddenly a sense of distance 
and isolation. “ She cannot love.” 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mengen also complained the next day of Faus- 
tine’s barred doors, but in quite a different tone. A 
half-hour with her gave him a pleasure that lasted 
for twenty-four hours ; but he could not expect to 
see her as often as he wished. Yet the longing for 
her presence grew. 

He had undertaken to fill the place of minister, 
as well as his own, during his summer ab- 
sence. He had worked hard ; but he did not dis- 
like work. His old fretful chef often sought him 
and wanted his society ; and then there had been 
the claims of the world, before he had met Faus- 
tine. Now all was changed, and he found himself 
begrudging every moment, so precious when passed 
near her. He discovered a new charm in her, a- 
new attraction every time they met ; in others, 
nothing. The talk of others all seemed a weary 
monotony. About her there was a depth — no shal- 
lowness. In that abundant gayety and grace one 

[H7] 


148 


Countess Obernau. 


always guessed at earnestness. A peculiar blend- 
ing of the highest civilization and the most entire 
simplicity. At first she had astonished him a little, 
and then enchanted. 

He found her usually reading, writing or paint- 
ing. Suddenly she would throw away all these 
like a schoolgirl. 

“ I would rather talk than think. Come, let us 
have a nice chat.” 

He felt himself, in crossing her threshold, to have 
entered into a new region ; but it was as if he had 
come into the possession of a long-expected in- 
heritance. She seemed to fill all the vain longings 
of an empty past. 

It is true some of the reports about Faustine 
would unpleasantly cross his mind at times, but he 
dismissed them skeptically. The world always 
gossiped, and he found no courage to question her. 
Perhaps he shrank from the possibility of pain. 

“ Why question such a frank creature upon what 
she will herself tell me some day, unasked?” 

Of Audlau, Faustine had never spoken to him. 
She was not one to explain^ her actions ; when they 
displeased, she never excused herself. Others must 
excuse her. She used to say: “We had better not 
offend again than waste words in idle apologies.” 

Indeed, of Audlau she spoke to very few persons, 


Countess Obernati. 


149 


and very rarely. She had acquired this invaluable 
wisdom. Perhaps she, too, feared pain. 

Once Mengen found her poring over a map of 
Egypt. He asked her what she was studying. 

“My journey to the East,’' she replied, and un- 
folding her plans she asked him if he would like 
to join the party. He joyfully accepted ; and she 
grew enthusiastic over the delight which this jour- 
ney would give her. 

“A friend of Baron Audlau is living in Alex- 
andria, so he writes to me to-day, and he is the 
pyramid of my Egyptian hopes.” 

“ If Herr von Audlau is of your party I should be 
quite a superfluous addition,” said Mengen, coldly, 
“ and I dare say you will dispense with me.” 

“ Would you not enjoy the tour,” asked Faustine, 
sweetly, “ and can I have too many friends?” 

“ You make a slave of me — not a friend.” 

“ If I do that you are right to free yourself ; but 
indeed I do it quite unconsciously.” 

“ Ah, well ! It is far nicer to be a slave near you 
than a freeman elsewhere.” 

“ Don’t fancy thajt I shall thank you for such a 
silly compliment. I hate slaves, and only want a 
willing service. If I have infringed upon your 
liberties, pray resume them. I don’t keep you.” 
She made a deprecating gesture with her hand. 


Countess Oberitau. 


150 


“ ‘ UncoriwSciously ’ — you yourself have said it.” 

“ Very well, then don’t complain. Either break 
your fetters or stop rebelling.” 

“ Have you then, really, been always so strong in 
every moment, all your life ?” 

“ My life has been monotonous and quiet enough ; 
it was only once I was forced to take an irrevocable 
decision. I had a right to it. Since then, thank 
God, I have had no further resolutions to make — 
very disagreeable things with us women.” 

‘‘ Absolute self-control — the character that always 
acts and sees wisely — it is superhuman.” 

“ So be it,” she said ; “ I don’t doubt it would be 
yours in emergency. Mengen, if your honest face 
is not the expression — not in accord with your 
nature, it would sadden me. You dare not lie. I 
don’t mean a vulgar, common lie, but the word 
which promises and does not fulfill. Is it not so ? 
Will you not always be what I believe you ?” 

She leaned forward and looked for an instant into 
his eyes, and her glance touched him as the sunrise 
touches the sea. He would have liked to kneel be- 
fore her and to vow to her an endless homage, but 
controlled himself, and contented himself with a 
light pressure of his lips upon the delicate hand 
that lay so near him. Then she said to him : 

“ I have understood your vow, and I accept it.” 


Countess Obernau. 


151 


And now,” said Mengen, forcing himself to con- 
ceal his agitation, “ you must give me some little 
token ; something that will never leave me, that I 
may remember.” 

“ Oh, certainly ! The Duke Christian of Brunswick 
wore a glove of Elizabeth von der Pfalz in his cap. 
My yellow glove would make a charming effect on 
your black hat !” 

Mario got up and passed into the next room. 
There was a little Etruscan coup^ on which were 
lying a number of rings. He took the toy up and 
brought it to Faustine. She let the contents slip 
through her fingers. 

‘‘Do you like this ring?” she asked. It was a 
quaint design ; a pearl was set very deeply into a 
circle of heavy gold, which bore the device, “ Qui 
me cherche me trouueC 

For an answer, Mengen took it from her and 
passed it on his finger, but she stopped him.. 

“ You have put it on a finger from which another 
ring will some day banish it ; put it where it may 
always be left. I am capricious, I must have my 
own place, no matter how insignificant.” 

“As you will,” replied Mario. “I was only in- 
tending to say that no place ever could be disputed 
to you.” 

“ Of course, as long as I don’t come -within the 


152 


Countess Obernau. 


orbit of some other star. See how nicely it looks on 
your little finger !” 

“ Now tell me the history of the ring,” he said, 
looking down at it and not at her, with a strange 
expression upon his lips. 

“ It has none,” she laughed. I had it made for 
myself some years ago, and I wore it three days and 
then threw it aside. It merely expressed my mood 
at the time. I thought then that people’s hearts 
were like sunken pearls — that no one looked for 
them. I was mistaken ; divers do, and so — the 
pearl belongs to them.” 

Such happiness filled the young man’s mind that 
he forgot how depressed he had been when first he 
had come to her. 

But Faustine was less content. After he had gone 
she asked herself if Audlau would have liked this 
ring given away. In his presence it would have 
been nothing ; but — in his absence — She quieted 
her uneasiness by promising herself to write him all 
about it the next morning. 

It was such a simple thing,” she said to herself, 
“ but I am so accustomed to making a clean breast 
of everything to Max, that it absolutely lies on me 
like a load. It is really ridiculous to live as I do, 
and certainly it has been nice to have Mengen here.” 

If the interest she found in Mario’s society should 


Countess Obernau. 


153 


outlive Audlau’s return — and, if it did not, the 
wrong she might be doing the former never entered 
her mind. It seemed to her quite her right, too, to 
take or throw away this new pleasure, and she saw 
in it no danger. 

Who can fathom the inconsequences that lurk in 
the recesses of our human hearts ? If one were to 
accuse Faustine of coquetry one might perhaps be 
doing her an injustice. Life to her was only worth 
the living in that she wanted to hew out of its hard- 
ness the beautiful God of her imagination, and if 
she held every new influence as a hammer-stroke in 
the task, why accuse her of the faintest touch of 
flckleness ? She had no patience with inaction — 
with useless, morbid repining. She longed to under- 
stand, to know, to see. Where there was so much 
beauty, who would be blind ? She hated hypocrisy. 
New acquaintances and their necessary train of new 
experience were accepted as from higher hands. 
She intended to wrong no one. No existence is so 
lonely that a foreign thread may not become inter- 
woven and entangled in its own, and if sometimes 
it must be broken when the knot is untied who is to 
blame ? 

The letter to Audlau, however, was not exactly 
such as Faustine had intended. While writing she 
was interrupted by the excited entrance of Madame 


154 


Countess Obernau. 


von Stein. Faustine received this lady very cour- 
teously, but was at once assailed with undisguised 
reproaches. She was told her influence over Cuni- 
gunde had been most unfortunate. It had only 
strengthened the girl in her resolve. 

“ I gave her no advice,” said Faustine, a trifle 
haughtily. “ She was with me a short time and 
seemed very decided. I did tell her that I did not 
believe her to be ill. Perhaps this gave her more 
strength of purpose.” 

It is all nonsense,” said the angry mother. 
“What does the child wish or expect? She has 
cast her sisters in the shade always. She has been 
an endless disadvantage to them. I must see things 
as they are. My daughters are portionless and here 
is an excellent man. No ; this is pure wickedness 
on her part.” 

“ She suffers, I think,” said Faustine. 

“Suffers! Yes, of course she suffers, because we 
are disappointed in her ; but let her come to her 
senses and she will be happy again soon enough. 
Why, she can do anything she pleases with Feldern, 
as any clever woman can with any man.” 

“‘Lead us not into temptation,’ ” said Faustine, 
very low, in a tone that made Frau von Stein start. 
The two women looked at each other. 

After an embarrassed silence, “ Ah, it is sweet 


Countess Obernau. 


155 


to influence and control a man one loves/’ said the 
Countess Obernau, “ but to govern one who is hate- 
ful to us is a horror and a degradation. It can 
only be done through the deceit of the woman or 
the sensuality of the man, and to impose such a 
destiny — would not that be terrible? When all 
the world says a man is happy, and he himself says 
so, even though it may be through her, I still say 
that such a marriage is degrading. It does not 
degrade her before the world — oh, no ! What does 
the world know ? But before herself ! Be pitiful to 
your child, madame ; don’t lead her into tempta- 
tion.” 

Madame von Stein did not find Faustine’s words 
very palatable. 

“ Our ideas are so entirely opposed, countess,” 
said the elder woman, “ and our views of life are so 
different, that I must be pardoned if I do not wish 
my daughter to avail herself of your permission to 
visit you. You are as exaltee as she is.” 

‘‘ Am I never to see Cunigunde again ?” asked 
Faustine, sadly. “ She seemed to find pleasure in 
being with me.” 

“ I cannot understand,” replied Frau von Stein, 
somewhat sharply, what interest you can find in 
my daughter.” 

I like loveliness.” 


Countess Obernau. 


156 


It looks a trifle bad for you to excite disturb- 
ance.” 

“ The reproach is undeserved.” 

She spoke so gently that Frau von Stein was sud- 
denly filled with a sense of the young woman’s 
charm, and left her, somewhat pacified, although 
unmovable in what she persisted in considering 
Cunigunde’s caprice. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

The next day a letter came to Fanstine. It was 
from Cunigunde. 

‘^Most beautiful one,” it ran, mamma says I am not to see 
you any more. I am very unhappy, and all through my own 
folly. I am only a burden upon my family. Oh, cannot you 
help me ? You have never asked a favor for yourself. Could you 
for me ? Do you think my simple accomplishments could be of 
any assistance to me? Would any of your influential friends 
take pity upon me and some interest on my behalf? If I could 
only make for myself an independent position ! I know that I 
am insignificant and inexperienced, but — I turn to you for 
counsel and assistance.” 

Faustine read the note with attention, and wrote 
a brief account of Cunigunde’s story to Audlau, in- 
closing the girl’s letter. When she had sealed hers, 
she suddenly remembered the affair of the ring had 
not been mentioned, but it was late, and she sent it 
to the post. She also entirely forgot to keep an en- 
gagement with Clemens, whom she had promised to 
meet at the basin of the Grossen Garten, to look at 

[157] 


Countess Obernau. 


153 


the skaters and let him draw her on his sledge. She 
only remembered it when he called late that even- 
ing, but she did not receive him, as she was dressing 
for a ball. 

When, half an hour later, she was entering the 
brilliant assembly, Mengen and Feldern were talk- 
ing together near the doorway. The former, in 
spite of an affected interest in the conversation, 
was narrowly watching the entrance door, while 
Feldern seemed doubly dejected. His final accept- 
ance of Cunigunde’s decision had not lessened his 
inclination for her. 

Au revoirC said Mengen, suddenly; ‘‘we will 
talk over this later.” 

“ Not this evening,” said Feldern, following 
Mario’s eyes, which had seen Faustine beforehand. 
She stood a moment at the door where a throng of 
lookers-on were staring at the dancers. vShe was 
dressed in some pale, creamy stuff, that hung in 
soft and shadowy folds. She looked more fragile 
than usual. 

Elbowing his way through the throng, Mengen 
soon had reached her side. 

“ What a lovely, discontented, little face you bring 
to our ball !” he said. 

“ It is very disagreeable that all troubles are so 
unbecoming.” 


Countess Obernau. 


159 


Ah, no mourning to-night,” he prayed ; “ I am 
so happy — it lingers from yesterday. I have news 
from my home too — my little sister is to be married 
to a long-loved suitor. They have had all manner of 
difficulties, and now — at last — the goal is reached— 
happiness has come.” 

“ Oh, rather say the trouble is over. Whether 
happiness has come is questionable.” 

“ You hope it, nevertheless. Will you waltz?” 

“ I hate gay people to-night.” 

I am not gay, I am only happy.” 

“ When happiness can interest itself in every- 
thing, I call it merely merriment.” 

“ Well, how will you have me to please you ?” 

“ Sympathetic,” she said ; and tears welled sud- 
denly into her eyes. 

Mengen grew pale. His teasing, which only had 
been intended to distract her from the trouble 
which he had instantly detected in her face, had 
really hurt her then. He drew her arm through 
his and led her to a quiet place in a deep window. 

What has happened to you ?” he said. 

She spoke to him of Cunigunde’s position, and 
her annoyance at finding herself unable to help the 
girl, while held more or less responsible for her 
final dismissal of Feldern. 

‘‘ Can you do anything for her ?” she asked. 


i6o 


Countess Obernau. 


Mengen was relieved to find Faustine had no 
personal trouble, and proud of her confidence and 
request. 

‘‘ Now, do me the pleasure of being immensely 
interested in my sister Matilde’s engagement,” he 
said. 

“ How can I be,” she pouted, “ when I never saw 
her?” 

Because her marriage will leave my younger 
sister alone, and I will have to find a companion 
for her.” 

“ Mengen, my dear friend, is this really true ?” 

I don’t know a better than Fraulein von Stein.” 

I cannot thank you enough,” said Faustine, and 
a sudden sense of this man’s kindness, of her own 
loneliness, and a certain tremor of the nerves, which 
she could neither fathom nor control, caused the 
tears which had gathered on her lashes to fall down 
on her clasped hands. 

“ How beautiful you are !” said Mengen, quickly 
and low. 

“ I am nothing,” she said. 

“ It is angelic,” he replied, “to grieve and rejoice 
for another as you have to-night. How selfish and 
cold other people must seem to you.” 

He leaned forward a little, as if to breathe in the 
perfume of her hair. 


Countess Obernau, 


i6i 


“ You must write directly,” said Faustine, eagerly, 
and trying to avoid his eyes. “ Will they ask much 
of the companion ?” 

She must be musical,” he laughed. 

Cunigunde is that. She sings charmingly.” 

“ I heard her once ; but I must confess she did 
not touch me.” 

Bref^ elle joue et elle chante^ c* est V essentiel. Oh, I 
am delighted that your sister Matilde is going to be 
happy.” 

Shall we waltz?” 

Faustine rarely danced. 

One cannot whirl in that way all the evening. 
Fancy having to laugh hours together. It’s just as 
silly,” she would say. She danced now once with 
Mengen to give him the pleasure ; but to all other 
requests she said : “You come too late.” 

“ I forgot everything to-day,” Faustine said to 
Mengen, a little later, as he still lingered. “ I for- 
got something I intended writing in a letter ; I for- 
got a run on Clemens Waldorf’s sledge, and I forgot 
my dinner.” 

“ You really need some one to look after you, 
Countess Faustine; how else shall you ever go 
through life r” 

“ I am sure I find it disagreeable enough.” 

“ I can’t offer you any substitute for the lost din- 


i 62 


Countess Obernau. 


ner ; but won’t you let me push you on the ice a 
little while to-morrow?” 

I am in a very merciful mood toward you to- 
night, and can deny you nothing. I cannot frame 
the word ‘ no.’ ” 

“ Are you unable to say ‘ no ’ to any other?” 

“ Oh, I haven’t given away all my independence ; 
but, to tell you the truth, I hate ‘ yes ’ and 'no,’ and 
they are so senseless to people who understand 
each other. Why ask, for instance : ‘ Do you love 
me?’ ” 

She regretted the words almost as soon as spoken, 
and flushed a little, but continued hastily : 

“Can’t people know it? Ah, well, men, I think, 
after all, need the reassurance less than we 
women.” 

Mario took her fan and played with it absently. 

“ Oh, as to that,” he said, “ you leave us so often 
in the dark as to your feelings, and seem to find 
such an enormous satisfaction in coquetries with 
others, that we might be pardoned an occasional 
doubt. You have less cause.” 

“ Men are assuredly touchingly simple,” said 
Faustine, lightly. “ I do think their vanity makes 
them more trusting than we are ; and if they doubt 
they disguise their tragic sufferings well enough.” 

“ I won’t discuss our merits with you ; but I must 


Countess Obernau, 


163 


remain of the opinion that a man is more capable 
than a woman of an absorbing passion/’ 

“ For play — for money — for fame — for some 
hobby — yes, that I believe.” 

“ No ; I mean the passion that you are thinking 
about.” 

“ How do you know what I think about?” 

“You must think of love, because that is your 
essence.” 

“ Well, for women, too, then.” 

“ Not for women, Countess Faustine, but for one 
woman.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember now. Only men, in your 
eyes, are capable of any enthusiasm. You are 
never inconsequent — that is a woman’s province.” 

“ Oh, they are practical enough as a balance to 
caprice.” 

“ Caprice is not always false.” 

“ Put your hand on your heart, contessa mia, and 
tell me if you think perfect confidence can be rested 
on anything so uncertain, variable and inscrutable 
as a woman. Now here, this girl — this proud Cuni- 
gunde — are you sure that she will always have the 
noble aspirations of to-day ?” 

“ No,” said Faustine, hesitatingly ; “but show me 
the man who finishes as he began.” 

“ Ah, well, when a man’s woof is broken, he does 


164 


Countess Obernail, 


not, at least, immediately add a thread of another 
color.” 

Let us hope, at least, that you do not ; but, 
tell me, why do you have such a poor opinion of 
women ?” 

‘‘ Far be such a sin from me.” 

“ Well, but really, did one ever sow the seed of 
mistrust in you ?” 

“ Do you think so, because I have these vague 
fears? No — countess — I never gave my whole 
heart to anything and have never been betrayed ; 
but — I feel in them that weakness, and perhaps 
should love the most one in whom I secretly sus- 
pected it.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

How unlike most men of the world he is,” 
thought Faustine. 

The music sounded to her far and faint. 

Others came to greet her. 

“ I see Lady Geraldine,” said Mengen, “ and must 
speak a word to her.” 

Faustine looked at him. 

“ Do you like her?” she inquired. 

“ Don’t you wish me to leave you ?” he asked, with 
a sudden delight at the flattery in her sweet tone. 

“ No,” she said. 

They stood together while others came and went. 


Countess Obernau. 


165 


“ Tell me about your sisters,” she asked, presently, 
trying to shake off a certain dangerous languor that 
was creeping over them. 

“ My sister Marie is eighteen, rather clever and 
very pretty, with light hair and brown eyes.” 

“ What a dry description !” 

“ Ah ! How can I talk to you about others ? I 
either want to listen to you or talk to you about 
yourself.” 

“ Heavens ! What a bore for me !” 

I don’t believe it. I am sure you take an enor- 
mous interest in yourself.” 

“ We must respect ourselves,” she laughed, “if we 
expect others to do so.” 

“ The moral of which is that a little refinea egotism 
is an excellent thing.” 

They talked lightly, but her influence was strong 
upon him. As Clemens had once asked himself, 
so did Mario: “Could she really love? Would 
not she give her enchantments only for a moment 
to withdraw them ?” 

So the night drew on. It was two o’clock. Faus- 
tine suggested that she would go home. Mario 
went in search of her servant, but the search was 
vain ; he was nowhere to be found. 

“ Such a thing never happened before. What can 
it mean ? The man must be ill. Do you think any- 


Countess Obernau. 


1 66 


thing- has happened to him?” Faustine asked, 
anxious and annoyed, and not knowing what to do. 
“ Perhaps he has absconded with all my possessions. 
Well, they are not numerous.” 

My coup^ is at the door and is entirely at your 
disposal. I will see you home,” said Mengen. 

'‘Ah, thanks, my good friend. That will solve 
the difficulty,”* said Faustine. 

He enveloped her in his fur-lined evening coat 
and led her down the stairs. 

“ I can give you Cunigunde’s letter, then, to- 
night,” she said. “ When can we have an answer?” 

“ Oh, in a very few days.” 

“ I will only speak of this to Cunigunde if the 
reply is favorable.” 

Faustine’s house was soon reached, and her maid 
met her, as usual, in the ante-chamber. 

“ Where is Ernest ?” asked the countess. 

“ He left an hour ago to meet you, Madame la 
Comtesse ; but Herr von Waldorf is still here.” 

“What an idea, Jeanette, to permit visitors to 
come in at such an hour!” cried Faustine, extremely 
vexed. 

“It was Ernest’s doing, not mine, Madame la 
Comtesse.” 

Faustine hastily pushed open her drawing-room 
door. A lamp burned low in the large apartment. 


Countess Obernau. 


167 


In its remotest recess sat Clemens, buried in a deep 
chair, his arms on his knees and his face buried in 
his hands. 

“Herr von Waldorf!” exclaimed Faustine, an- 
grily. 

He looked up at her as if bewildered. 

“ I believe he was asleep,” she whispered, half 
impatiently, half laughingly, to Mario. 

“ I believe that it was good for him,” muttered 
Mario under his breath, shaking the young fellow’s 
arm rather roughly. “ Will you come with me ? The 
countess is tired after the ball, and we are de trop 
here.” 

“ You are, perhaps,” murmured Clemens, and then 
addressing Faustine over Mario’s shoulder: “You 
come here at this hour and in this dress — what does 
it mean ?” 

Faustine was staggered at the quiet with which 
Mengen took Clemens’s answer ; still more so when 
he drew from her shoulders his coat, which still 
hung about them, and restrained the word which 
was springing to her lips. 

“ To-morrow the countess will tell you all about 
the ball. To-night it is really too late. Come with 
me, my good Waldorf.” 

“ I cannot understand you,” she said. “ How can 
you — ?” 


i68 


Countess Obernau. 


“We must be indulgent to him ; I am afraid he 
has been drinking.” 

Faustine repressed a cry of fear, and seized 
Mario’s hand. This roused Waldorf’s rage, and he 
approached her, deathly pale. 

“ Why are you afraid of me ?” he thundered forth. 

“ I am not,” she said, hastily ; but her arm leant 
on Mario’s, and he felt her tremble. He wished to 
put an end at once to this painful scene. 

“ If you will give me that letter, we will say good 
night.” 

Faustine went quickly into her room. He followed 
her to the door. From its threshold in a moment 
she handed the note to him, then re-entered, closed 
it and turned the key. He felt a pain shoot through 
his heart, as sudden as it was inexplicable — the sense 
of being left in the cold without even a whispered 
good-night. 




CHAPTER XX. 

Clemens had established himself upon the sofa, 
drawing a cushion half under his head. Mario took 
up his own hat and coat. 

Are you ready, Herr von Waldorf.” 

“No, I am waiting for the Countess Faustine. 
She shall give me an explanation of why she broke 
her word to me this morning, and this evening had 
me sent away.” 

“ But she has shuPherself up in her room ; a sign 
that we can go.” 

Clemens did not move. Mengen fearing high 
words, and that Faustine’s peace might again be 
disturbed, sat down. too. When Clemens saw this, 
he said, angrily : 

“ By what right do you remain here 

“ Since you have established a watch outside of 
this lady’s door, I shall give myself the same 
pleasure.” 


[169] 


Countess Obernau. 


1 70 


“The whole night?” 

“The whole night.” 

“ It will be cold enough.” 

“ I have my coat.” 

“ Two are not needed at the post ; one is enough.” 

“ Don’t you think on this occasion one is too 
many ?” 

After a silence, Clemens murmured : 

“ I wish it were time to rest, and that everything 
were well.” 

“ Come, come,” said Mario, touching his shoulder 
gently, “ let us have a talk together. Come with 
me.” 

He finally persuaded the young man to accom- 
pany him, and thankfully delivered him into the 
custody of his valet. From Waldorf’s domicile he 
returned to the ball, in quest of Faustine’s servant. 
His own footman had seen the man shockingly in- 
toxicated, so he left him to the search, and went 
home, bidding his servant bring Ernest to him 
when found. 

Two hours later, Ernest, already partly sobered, 
appeared with his mistress’s furs still hanging on 
his arm, and much abashed at Mengen’s frowning 
countenance. 

“Who enticed you to such conduct?” asked the 
latter, sternly. 


Countess Obernau. 


171 

“ Herr von Waldorf, your excellency,” stammered 
tlie culprit. 

** Don’t lie to me !” 

Upon my honor, if I can speak like an aristo- 
crat,” stammered Ernest, “he bade me go to the 
ball for my lady and gave me ten friedrichs-d' or . 
He said he was expected to wait for her at our 
house. I waited a long while. It was very cold. 
A wine-room was near. I drank some glasses of 
champagne — it may have been bottles — I didn’t 
count. Time passes quickly so.” 

“ Don’t go near Countess Obernau to-day,” said 
Mengen. “ My man will take you with him to sleep 
off this drunken spree. But leave your mistress’s 
cloak here ; don’t dare drag it about with you.” 

Ernest deposited the cloak upon a chair and 
stumbled out in deep dejection. 

Mengen, when left alone in his apartment, took 
up the cloak and held and looked at it with a sense 
of joy, as if the greatest treasure of the world had 
fallen into his hands. It was of rich brocade. On 
a ground of gold were deep red flowers, poppy- 
hued. It was lined with a darker plush and edged 
with soft black fur. It was warm and light, and so 
made as not to disorder the toilet — soft and delicious 
in the close contact. To Mario’s fantasy it seemed 
as though her pretty head still rose from out the 


Countess Obernau, 


1 72 

dark fur, like a star from out the evening sky ; and 
the graceful, slight figure seemed to be still resting 
under the rich folds, and her hands drawing them 
about her tall form. He buried his glowing face 
deeply in the garment, about which hung some 
faint fragrance of her sweetness, and its softness 
seemed to lie like kisses upon his lips. With a sud- 
den violence he threw the thing from him. He 
felt little inclination to sleep and sat down to write. 

He began a letter to his father. Hardly had he 
written a half-dozen lines when his eyes fell once 
more on the cloak, which lay still upon the floor. 

“ That is no place for what she wears,” said Mario, 
rising, and taking up the cloak with tenderness, 
kissing it as if to beg its pardon for his cruelty, he 
sat down again at his desk, keeping it across his 
knees. He began once more to write rapidly of 
Cunigunde, with such heartiness and earnestness 
that he already felt certain of the reply. 

“ That was a good day,” he said, half aloud, seal- 
ing the letter. “ I have seen the angel in her glory, 
and I was permitted to serve her.” 

Before he slept he buried his head in the beloved 
cloak, speaking idle and foolish words to it, and 
through his dream Faustine wept and smiled. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Clemens awoke early, his head aching-, his mind a 
desert. The last evening seemed some horrid night- 
mare. He tried to remember. He called his ser- 
vant, a stalwart villager whom he had brought from 
Oberwaldorf. 

“ Johann,” he asked, who came home with me?” 

“ I do not know, gnadiger Herr'* 

“ I was not alone ?” 

“ No, sir. A tall gentleman — as tall as you are, 
only thinner — came with you.” 

Was I ill, Johann ?” 

“ Na^ gnadiger Herr^ not just that,” said Johann, 
with stupid laughter. 

“ Jesus, Maria !”said Clemens. “ And she saw me ! 
Am I, then, possessed with a ^spirit of evil ? Cannot 
I touch a drop of. wine any more without such a 
disaster?” 

'Ha, gnadiger Herr," said Johann, soothingly. 
“ I think it must have been more than a drop.” 

[173] 


174 


Countess Obernau. 


“ I will dress myself,” said the unfortunate Clemens. 

He did so in fury and hastened to Mengen’s. He 
wished to know if he had in any way hurt Faustine, 
and for how much of her displeasure he could thank 
his detested rival. 

Mengen had not yet risen, but Clemens would not 
be stopped. He pushed his way into Mengen ’s bed- 
room and drew the curtain of his bed with a violent 
jerk. 

Mengen, suddenly awakened and bewildered at 
this most unlooked-for intrusion, half rose upon 
one arm and confronted Clemens. Faustine’s cloak 
fell from the disordered bed to the floor. 

Clemens had grown livid. His teeth chattered in 
his head. Mengen, suddenly remembering the young 
man’s last night’s escapade, and thinking he had 
himself come for an explanation, spoke in a friendly 
tone. 

“ That sort of thing may pass once, dear Waldorf, 
but—” 

“ The devil take you !” cried Clemens, blind with 
anger. “ That cloak belongs — ” 

“ To the Countess Faustine,” said Mario, with icy 
coldness, but inwardly shaken with a sudden dismay 
and cursing his own thoughtlessness. 

And that you don’t even deny !” stammered 
Clemens. 


Countess Obernau. 


175 


“ Why should I ?” said Mario, affecting a coldness 
he by no means felt. 

Oh, Faustine ! Faustine !” lamented Clemens, 
pacing the floor of the room. 

“ Herr von Waldorf, may I ask an explanation of 
this unwarranted intrusion? Your conduct of yes- 
terday was to be understood and excused, but this 
morning it is neither one nor the other. Let me 
know at once your errand here.” 

Count Mengen, how came this cloak here ?” 

“ An answer to that question I owe to the Countess 
Obernau — not to you. That I shall give this answer 
to her without delay you will know later. But I beg 
you not to weigh the respect and homage I give 
to this lady by the measure of your own, which 
has shown itself to be so wanting in consideration 
and discretion.” 

Clemens felt that no further satisfaction would be 
gained by prolonging this interview, which was 
placing him in a ridiculous position. He conse- 
quently stopped Mario short and left him with a 
muttered curse. He hastened to the promenade, 
where he took up his beat under Faustine ’s windows. 
Possibly she might see him and speak to him. 

The day broke brilliantly into Faustine’s dark- 
ened room, shining across her closed eyelids. She 
woke, but was yet half dreaming. She felt happy. 


176 


Countess Obeimau> 


She did not know why. It must be about Cuni- 
gunde/’ she reflected. 

After Clemens had been pacing up and down 
some time, he decided in his anguish to pay Faus- 
tine a call, making no allusion to what had passed, 
just to see how she would receive him. 

“God !” he thought, “if only she does not care for 
this Mengen. It is this that makes her so indif- 
ferent to me. In Oberwaldorf she was different — 
Not different to me, not more friendly — ^but I could 
not imagine her more so to any other man, unless, 
indeed, to Audlau. Yes, even her supposed senti- 
ment for Audlau did not wound me so much — not 
so deeply — not so bitterly, as this. I do not make 
any chimeras for myself ; I only ask her to pardon 
and suffer me. Will she repel me, while she lavishes 
her fancy upon this Mengen, the devil only knows 
to what degree ?” 

He so worked up his anger and his passion, that 
when he came before Faustine he was exhausted, 
and had not a word. She thought him mortified at 
his unfortunate plight of the night before, and in 
pity decided to ignore the subject. 

“ I am glad you came early ; I feared you would 
not pardon my yesterday’s thoughtlessness.” 

vShe told him of the reasons which had detained 
her from fulfilling her engagement with him. She 


CLEMENS SAT IN A CHAIR, 


HIS FACE BCRIEI) IN HIS HANDS.— S'C« Page 167 




I'; : ^ a ’ ^ ^ . ■ ICn^. • -•. • >* . 1 - ' - •• 

- --^t;-" * '*** -^. */ •••• \ • . • 'V Ts *;•" ■ - ■ -•* 

. /-.'A ' « ' - ‘ ' '**■'- * ■ *' ■' ■- /*'■'/ 

'/ : ■''* ' .'* / . .' • -'..■ -. ' •'* ' ^ 

^ Lri - •^. . • •-TnC* • ' '•**•, '' . I # / - • - 

' • ‘ '*1 I ''<'•■ ^‘ -%-'■ ' ■* - ' '^ --- • * ' ' ' V- - • ^ 

!•«»— .^rvA.w • . 4 - _* -^’iH ■.«'-♦- ^ • •!. , .♦ T- . ^ 


I 

V* ■ / 


» 




''M 


L^' ' ■ -■•' •« •* I 'O'. ^ - ■ ■ 

L'-"'- “ vC.-. '.--V- > . *> rVv.- ^'Vu'’ 

--pEUfe'^s ‘ -. . - - . ■ . 

• '■ ■ ' KSl 


* ’'■f - 

i* • •.♦ V 

• - f 


#1 - 

<. • • 


f i 

f 

*' V 








ii*; , / 


'^■ 

♦ , 


» 

► ♦ 





- '. ■ '* 


9 «* 


; •>»“ 


1 . 


.» 0 


t ^ 
•‘1 > 1 


• \ ^ 
' •# 


* * J 


' I 




V . 


. t 


# 


:■ < 


•>> 

A ^ 


» • . * — • >» ^.\*«** 

-I 7 t- \ ^ ‘Tv •V'V*^ ‘--j 

.»• «■• .«y* .• V «•* • ,'T.* • , ■ 

' ' - - - - -• .J^'- .* • ' *• ' 


a- f 


» 

4 


*. ^ / -• “v 

IV ^ 



. .. Ti'’ ..\ 

• . v 4 p» , ^ V •• • • 

■ Y - *vJL ' •* *• -‘rA ^ iv ‘ r^' ^ *' ^*t 

:^;V‘‘': -. . . V oo„;U’ 


t 1 . ^ • • • - v 4 r* • T J 

//*#• 'U ' '• .* ■■ . • 

^ r*- 

' ,» ■.■■■*• ,-■ - ' " ■•' 

.* ' . •• • 


'*« • 



t • ' 


.* X 




* ^ 



Countess Obernau. 


177 


spoke of the ball and how much it amused her, and 
how brilliant it all had been. She then just touched 
upon her promise to meet Mengen on the ice — all 
so simply, lightly and naturally, as one does in try- 
ing to put another at ease. But Clemens was too 
excited and irritated to be open to this influence. 
He only saw a clever ruse. 

It is often more flattering to be rebuked for a 
misdemeanor than to be treated with lenient indif- 
ference. It is only very young and inexperienced 
people who mistake kindness for love ; Clemens 
had grown old and wise in few hours. He covered 
his face with his hands and remained speechless 
before her, overwhelmed with the conflict of his 
sufferings. 

Her first impulse was to draw away from him, 
half-indignant that he should not lend himself with 
more tact to her avoidance of a scene. But there 
was something so dispirited in the young man’s 
attitude, that she forced herself to remain near him, 
and even touched the hand that covered his eyes — ^ 

“ My poor Clemens,” she said. “ Let it pass.” 

He pushed away the light touch and looked at 
her. 

“You make God lie!”, he said. “Yes, yes, the 
mask has fallen.” And as Faustine, shocked and 
frightened, moved quickly from his side : “ When 


178 


Countess Obernau, 


I first saw your beautiful face I thought God’s angel 
had been sent into the world — a messenger from 
Him. But this sweetness was a lie ; there was 
nothing, only a woman — after all — a lie !” 

Faustine looked very tall as she stood facing him. 
Quickly and quietly she left him, trailing her light 
garments across his feet. She sat down at her 
desk and began to write. About a quarter of an 
hour passed ; then Clemens, in his misery, followed 
her and stood at the door. 

“ If I am a criminal,” he said, ‘‘ answer me one 
question before the death-blow.” 

“You are a madman,” she said, wearily laying 
down her pen. 

“ Did you not return here last evening in Count 
Mengen’s company?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ His coat over your Shoulders ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why ?” 

“ Because my ck)ak and my servant had vanished, 
and are still among the missing.” 

“ I beg your pardon, your cloak has not vanished. 
I saw it two hours since.” 

“ Where?” 

“Where? you ask — Countess, have you the 
courage?’* 


Countess Oberfimi. 


179 


“ Heaven,” she cried, impatiently ; “ is it hang- 
ing on the weather-cock of the Catholic cathedral, 
or has it ridden through the air with some new 
Faust?” 

It is in Count Mengen’s room, across his 
bed.” 

‘‘ Why, I am so pleased ! Then he must have 
found Ernest. I was quite anxious, and I am so 
fond of that cloak. I was afraid it was lost. Now, 
Herr von Waldorf, you may continue your exami- 
nation.” 

However, she blushed a little. 

It is ended.” 

“ That is too bad.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because I have not been able to administer the 
desired death-blow or scatter your wild illusions to 
the winds. You look petrified, but convinced of 
nothing.” 

He fell at her feet. 

“ Have pity, Faustine. Jealousy has bereft me of 
my reason — love, of my judgment. Oh, tell me at 
least that Mengen is no happier than I am.” 

“ I hope that he is, from my soul’s depth,” she 
said almost solemnly. 

He was goaded by his torments. He would, at all 
cost, stab her into some feeling. 


i8o 


Cotmtess Obernau. 


“ I don’t doubt it,” be said, “and surely, last even- 
ing, he had reason to feel satisfied.” 

He spoke with a ring of sarcasm. 

A look of profound sadness overshadowed Faus- 
tine’s delicate face. 

“ Clemens !” she said ; and in her tone there 
lurked something that made the tears spring to the 
young man’s eyes. 

“ Forgive !” he cried, looking into hers with trem- 
bling and dog-like humiliation. 

“Oh,” she said, “it is not I you have wounded 
unto death, but yourself — the purity of your own 
feeling. Get up ! Go ! You surely will never have 
the audacity or the courage to raise your eyes to 
mine again. I will never see you again. Leave 
me! Go!” 

“ Have mercy, Faustine !” breathed Clemens, his 
forehead against her feet. But with unspeakable 
disgust she spurned him from her. 

When Faustine was alone once more she burst into 
passionate tears. She turned to Audlau’s picture. 

“ Max, my friend, will you not come back to me 
with your protecting comfort?” 




CHAPTER XXII. 

Her tears were hardly dry when she heard in 
the ante-chamber Mario’s step. It vexed her that 
she could not tell him the cause of her emotion. 

He did not find her greeting very friendly when 
he entered with the words : 

Dare I ask pardon for the sinner Ernest ?” 

‘‘ He is the cause of everything,” she replied. 

Has anything unpleasant happened to you 
since?” asked Mario, anxiously. 

‘‘ No, nothing,” she said, constrained. “ I only 
m6an yesterday — and then, where is my cloak ?” 

“Ah,” thought Mario, “Clemens has already 
babbled.” 

“ I rescued it last night from Ernest and from the 
fumes of the servants’ hall,” he said quietly ; “ but 
this morning I delivered it to him again.” 

[i8i] 



i 82 


Countess Obernau. 


“ I will have nothing to do with drunken men ; I 
have sent one off this morning, the other may go.” 

“ Dear countess, will you not overlook it ?” 

“ No ; Clemens has already disgraced himself, 
and if it was he who gave money to my servant it 
does not raise him much in my estimation ; I don’t 
like it.” 

“ But I assure you, countess, Ernest is repenting 
in tears.” 

“ Well, speak to him for me, then ; appeal to his 
conscience and put him upon his oath. I have no 
talent at lecturing and sermonizing. I admit I don’t 
like to dismiss, for one failure, a servant I have had 
and trusted so long.” 

So Mario became a mediator, and he soon suc- 
ceeded in banishing from Faustine’s soul the cause 
of her annoyance, for she was as impressionable as 
a child, and, like Atalanta, she was prone to stop 
and pluck the golden apples that might be scat- 
tered on her way. Mario, to distract her, tried to 
interest her about a marriage that had set the whole 
town agog, and was looked upon as a mesalliance for 
other reasons than the difference in the social posi- 
tion of the parties. 

‘‘ The man is an artist ?” said Faustine. 

Yes, a worn-out man, without one atom of per- 
sonal attraction left. What good will his fame do 


Countess Obernau. 


183 


his wife, and the flattery he receives, when the 
glamour falls from her own eyes ?” 

‘‘Oh, well, you know some women like to be 
proud of a man — to hear him praised and admired — 
it gives them pleasure.” 

“ Yes, and have him come home enervated, ill- 
tempered, creeping back into his chrysalis, a dis- 
contented caterpillar.” 

“ Oh, women are accustomed to seeing men with- 
out much illusion who haven’t even beforehand en- 
chanted the world. I suppose the artist tempera- 
ment exerts a sort of magic. It is certainly fas- 
cinating.” 

“ One still asks oneself : ‘Will the fascination 
remain a life-time?’ How many men who have 
lost their heads for actresses and singers have ever 
found a lasting tie ?” 

“ Lasting ties don’t spring from early caprices,” 
said Faustine ; “ and these fancies generally belong 
to extreme youth.” 

“ Oh, boy-fancies. — those attractions of a moment — 
they don’t bind,” said Mario. “ One congratulates 
oneself after on the narrow escape one has had. 
It is an awful thing to meet again an early flame.” 

“ You doubtless have had much experience,” said 
Faustine, demurely. 

“I am afraid of artistic people,” said Mario, 


184 


Countess Obernau. 


earnestly, and not replying to her words — terri- 
bly afraid. One never knows where to find them ; 
one is never sure. Artists are safer in their works.” 
He seemed to wish some assurance from her she 
would not give. 

Spoken coldly, like a man of the world. You are 
afraid of what you are not prepared to meet. Ah, 
well, the artistic nature must be its own reward, and 
its sacrifices are repaid by unknown treasures. 
Think of the intoxication a great artist must have 
in the completion of his masterpiece ! How narrow 
and crude our pleasures seem in comparison ; but — 
it must be hard — afterward — to come back to sober 
commonplaces.” 

'‘We all have to come down to that and be con- 
tent as best we may ; I can, however, imagine no 
circumstances that would make you commonplace.” 
He continued laughingly : “ Teach me how not to 
fear chaotic uncertainties ; I like clearness.” 

“ Come, then, Count Mengen, let us start for the 
Grosser Garten. Everything is clear enough there ; 
such a blue sky ; such a white earth ; such sparkling 
ice ; such bare trees. Oh, that clearness — how cold 
it all is !” She gave a little shiver and went to fetch 
her wraps. Mengen’s eyes followed her. 

“ I like clearness,” he repeated to himself, half 
aloud, sitting buried in a corner of her sof^. “ WeU^ 


Countess Obernau. 


185 

why not ! Why not look for it through her — one 
question — and — She is like the sun. There is no 
clearness — I dare not.” 

Faustine had been ready for some moments and 
was standing looking at him when he awoke from 
his reverie. 

I don’t like to disturb people so absorbed,” she 
said almost shyly. “ One does not know from what 
Eden one may be calling them back.” 

“ Have no fear ; you bring it,” said Mario, with a 
seriousness differing from his usual tone of light 
badinage. The mood remained with him as long as 
they were together. At parting, he said to her : 

And are twenty-four hours to pass before I see 
you again ?” 

“ Why not come to-night to Frau von Eilau’s ? I 
shall be there.” 

I cannot possibly ; I have engagements at the 
ministry.” 

“Then don’t complain.” 

“ I will come,” he said. He thought he saw that 
his uncertainty, not his complaint, had vexed her ; 
and Faustine smiled. 

In the evening, one half-hour after the other 
passed away, but Mario did not arrive at the von 
Eilaus’. Faustine became impatient, then restless, 
at last miserably, At first she attributed his non- 


i86 


Countess Obernau. 


appearance to some detaining affairs — that plea, so 
common to the other sex, and which, in fact, he had 
mentioned as possible ; then to some unforeseen 
detention ; finally, to a calamity. She thought of 
Clemens. 

“ God only knows what further folly he may have 
committed,” she said to herself, and wondered if 
Mario had rashly allowed himself to be involved. 
Dark possibilities arose before her. She sank upon a 
sofa with her head thrown back — a way that she had. 

They had music, and it was so excellent that con- 
versation died. When it is mediocre it seems only 
to give fresh impetus to flimsy nothings. So Faus- 
tine remained undisturbed ; but the music sounded 
in her ears like a senseless buzz. She was on the 
point of leaving the salon and of taking refuge in 
her own home, to conquer, alone, this anguish of 
expectation, when very quietly, as if to disturb no 
one, the door opened. It was Mengen. Faustine 
had so often already turned her eyes toward this 
door that, discouraged, she would not raise them 
again. She sat, quite pale, her eyelids lowered and 
her lips somewhat tremulous. He caught sight of 
her face with its suggestion of immense disappoint- 
ment, and stepped quickly to her side. 

All eyes turned toward the late comer, but he 
only saw her, and when, at last, becoming conscious 


Countess Obernau. 


187 


of his presence, she looked up and recognized him, 
in an instant she was transformed — radiant, happy, 
beautiful. 

“ What had happened to you just now ?” he asked. 

I was afraid you were not coming. It seemed 
so tedious,” she said, in the tone of a tired child. 

“ Has really nothing else troubled you ?” 

“ Is it nothing to wait an hour and a half, or two 
hours — and for me, who hate it so? I would not 
like to inflict that on any human being.” 

“ I didn’t fix any time. How could I guess?” he 
answered, manlike. 

“ Oh, no. No, certainly, you could not guess ; but 
now you know, once for all.” 




CHAPTER XXIIL 

Feldern came often to see Faustine. She had 
told him of the letter written for Cunigunde ; and 
the young man had been brought to think it all for 
the best. 

“Since the possibility of seeing her has been 
taken from me I am glad she should be far away,” 
he said, “ I shall breathe more freely and force my- 
self to realize the hopelessness of my attachment. 
The worst is to have a person at hand and yet be 
separated. When she is near I want to see her ; 
and if I see her I want her for myself.” 

“You are very frank, my dear Feldern,” Faustine 
replied. “ I have rarely heard you speak openly.” 

“When one has nothing further to hope or to 
fear — when one has all or nothing, one becomes 
candid. You know the bridegroom on his wedding 
morning says very simply : ‘ I am happy,* and the ' 

[i88] 


Countess Obernau. 


189 


beggar in the street just as simply : ‘ I am wretched/ 
and the same language does for joy and misery." 

Faustine fancied she recognized in such expres- 
sions the influence of Mario — Mario, who always 
insisted one must bow to the irrevocable. 

She wished some one, equally wise, might come 
to Clemens’s aid with helpful counsel ; she could and 
must do no more for him. He had disappeared 
from out of her life and she might have fancied 
him gone, but something whispered to her that he 
would not leave without first seeking a reconcilia- 
tion. Where could he be ? Was he still watching 
her? Was he spying her steps and actions? What 
might there not be to fear from his rash passion ? 
Sometimes, when alone, she nervously mistrusted 
her servants. She often started if she heard voices 
and steps in her ante-chamber and could not dis- 
tinguish whose they were. She worked herself up 
into imaginary fears. But when Mengen was with 
her she could not confess what then seemed so 
childfsh. 

It was too repugnant to her to put Mario on 
Clemens’s track. She did not wish to wound the 
latter further, or to fan his hate. At last when 
days passed and Clemens gave no sign, she implored 
Feldern to look for him ; she opened her heart to 
him and told him something of what had passed. 


Countess Obernau. 


190 


“ I myself can’t look for him ; it would seem like 
encouragement and put me in an impossible light ; 
but I do feel anxious.” 

Feldern promised to do his best and discover if 
possible, that very day, if Clemens was still in 
Dresden. 

A letter from Audlau did not add greatly to Faus- 
tine’s content. He wrote about Cunigunde’s con- 
cerns with that cool impartiality insupportable to a 
person half committed. He said one had better not 
rashly interfere in other people’s affairs ; things 
look so differently to-morrow from to-day. He felt 
that she knew Cunigunde very little ; that to find 
her a home was a difficult matter ; that the respon- 
sibility was great, and small thanks to be had for 
entangling oneself in family difficulties. 

Faustine rebelled a little. She did not think she 
had been officious or that any of this trouble could 
fall on herself. 

“ And what if it did ?” she said to herself. “ Surely 
it is no crime to have wished another well.” 

Audlau ’s answer was certainly neither sympathetic 
nor to her taste ; it dispirited her. Sometimes when 
a woman wants to soar, a man seems bent on clip- 
ping her wings. If Mario did no better, what was 
to be done with the girl and the false hopes raised 
in her mind ? 


Countess Obernau. 


191 

The chill of Audlau’s words was still upon Faus- 
tine, when Ernest announced Count Mengen. He 
came in gayly, an open letter in his hand : 

“ Cunigunde is welcome,” he said. ‘‘ My mother 
has sent her servant to fetch her. That is why the 
letter is' somewhat delayed. He brought it to me. 
Are you pleased ?” 

He bowed before her and then glanced into her 
face, which was now once more full of a happy 
light. 

“ Oh, Mengen !” she said, with one hand upon her 
heart, giving him the other. She had felt discour- 
aged and he seemed a God-sent messenger. 

He held her hand for a moment with a gesture of 
infinite devotion, looking for a while into her eyes 
as if unable to turn away his own. At last he 
raised her hand to his lips ; but it was a homage, 
and it was hardly a caress. 

Please, Count Mengen,” she said, tell Ernest 
to procure a messenger at once. I will write to 
Cunigunde. Perhaps she could start to-morrow. 
Oh, how glad she will be — how grateful to you !” 

“That is absurd, I did this in your service ; it had 
to succeed.” 

Feldern, in the meanwhile, had gone to Clemens. 
The stalwart Johann grinned and seemed in doubt 
whether to admit him; but having acknowledged 


192 


Countess Obernau, 


that his master was at home he had to open the door. 
Feldern’s fastidiousness was shocked at the disorder 
that reigned in. what might have been called the 
elegant apartment : wearing apparel on the floor ; 
dishes on the chairs ; flasks of wine, cards, the re- 
mains of a late breakfast and of half-smoked cigars 
on the table ; fencing swords and pistols on the bed ; 
glasses everywhere ; Clemens in a dressing-gown, 
with unkempt beard, pale as a ghost, haggard, 
standing in the center of the room with one hand 
limp at his side, the other thrown up over his head.” 

“You seem to be in camp here,” said Feldern ; 
but somehow the light words did not have a very 
happy ring. 

“Yes,” said Clemens, “we have made two days 
and two nights of it. They have gone off now, 
heaven knows where — to eat and sleep I suppose ; 
much I care.” 

“ And did you have a very good time ?” 

“Good? Yes — if you like; noise enough and 
wine enough and play ; but I hope that you are not 
of the opinion that women are necessary to make 
the goodness perfect.” 

“Not at all!” 

Feldern looked at Clemens with a bleeding heart. 
The young man seemed still under the influence of 
wine — ill — half mentally, half physically. 


Countess Obernau, 


193 


“ Don’t yon think a little fresh air would do you 
good ? Whew ! This hot atmosphere clogs the 
lungs. You look worn-out.” 

“ I am,” said Clemens, and sat down on the edge 
of the table from which he scattered the cards. 

I thought you must be ill. It is such a long 
time since we met you at the Countess Faustine’s.” 

“ Oh, I am not ill, thank you ! I only prefer to 
lead this merry life.” 

“ It is very well for a day or two, but, my dear 
fellow, how sick one gets of the fun !” 

As one does of everything in this sublunar 
world, and first of all, of life.” 

You are very young, Waldorf.” 

“ I shall be twenty-two to-morrow, and that is 
young, but I have grown old in wretchedness this 
last month — old as the hills.” 

“ Yet you seem to be making an effort at amuse- 
ment.” 

“ No ; at killing time.” 

“ Come out and have a walk with me.” 

I must dress first.” 

“Yes, I should say so; from head to foot.” 

“Oh, it isn’t worth while. Tell me, Herr von 
Feldern, is anything worth lifting one’s little fin- 
ger for?” 

“ Yes, your duty, I suppose.” 


194 


Countess Obernau. 


But if you haven’t a duty in the world ?” 

“ What nonsense ! There is humanity.” 

“ Bah !” cried Clemens, letting his head fall for- 
ward on his breast. “ Did any one instigate you to 
come to me?” he asked, after a pause. 

Feldern did not care to lie ; besides, there seemed 
to be something so forlorn, so desolate, in the young 
fellow’s position, that he had no heart to grudge 
him a small ray of pleasure. He therefore made 
no answer. 

“ It is she^ then, who sent you. She^ then, thinks 
of me,” cried Clemens, with a sorrowful eagerness. 
“ Well — how could it be otherwise, since I not only 
think of her, but my whole thought is she. Such 
thoughts must be a net around about her — a net to 
draw her to me — at last.” 

He spoke with the eloquence born of deep feel- 
ing in the language it teaches to the most simple. 

Feldern remembered all that Faustine had said 
about Waldorf’s exaggerated sentiments, and there 
was a slight tone of sarcasm in the tone of his reply. 

“ Don’t depend upon that. Women are too subtle 
for our clumsy thoughts to entangle, and so capri- 
cious that they are sometimes caught at smaller 
cost.” 

‘‘Do you think so? Without an effort? Then 
you, too, have been hurt by a woman? Oh, the 


Countess Obernau, 


195 


pain 1 It is nameless — nameless. And to look for 
heaven through one of them is to be lost ! How 
queer it is —one passes most women by without a 
sensation ; no heart-beat ; no boiling of the blood ; 
no longing to clasp them to one’s breast. It is only 
one j among the others she seems like some beauti- 
ful legend amid every-day tales. Tell me, does such a 
woman make you think of the princess who dropped 
roses from her lips when she laughed and pearls 
from her eyes when she cried ! Oh, her eyes !” 

All women have eyes,'’ broke in Feldern impa- 
tient at this rhapsody ; and it is well to remember 
it and not fall into monomania. We must feel that 
a woman has no eyes who has none for us.” 

“ Very true ; very philosophical. But, 5 ^ou see, I 
neglected philosophy at college. Wisdom reduced 
into a science always looked to me a grand tree 
trimmed into some fanciful shape ; and this re- 
minds me of some fir-trees Countess Obernau 
sketched at Oberwaldorf, which proves to you that 
my philosophy begins and ends — with her.” 

He buried his face in his hands and was silent. 

“You are really ill,” said Feldern, pityingly. 
“ These miserable days have destroyed your nerves 
— overheated you. You must come out. Dress 
yourself quickly and let your servant arrange your 
rooms.” 


196 


Countess Obernau. 


“As you like,” said Clemens, and called Johann. 

Johann’s qualifications not being those of an 
accomplished valet, the toilet was of long duration. 
Through the half-opened door of the dressing-room 
Feldern entertained Waldorf with such topics as he 
thought might amuse and distract him from his 
morbid broodings. Clemens, however, remained 
utterly indifferent to every subject which was not 
Faustine, and had Feldern asked him some ques- 
tion about the man in the moon, would probably 
have answered her name. 

“ I shall die if I do not see her again,” he said 
when they were once out of the house. 

“ And what if you do see her again ? You behave 
in such a way that even a woman of the world like 
the countess, who can adapt herself so well to most 
people, cannot support you.” 

“ That is it ! Why will she treat me as she does 
all others?” 

“ If you expect anything else, then I decline to 
be mediator.” 

“ O God, make that she shall see me again, and 
she may treat me exactly as she likes — only not 
with disgust and disdain ! Tell her to say ‘ Dear 
Clemens," not ‘ Herr von Waldorf.’ No one ever 
called me ‘ Dear Clemens.’ I lost my parents 
early ; but sometimes she says ‘ Dear Clemens.* To 


Countess Obernau. 


197 


most people I am Waldorf, you know. When she 
says it, it is as if a nightingale sang in the winter, 
and if any one else attempted to call me so I would 
very soon stop his mouth with a blow. I wonder 
if one day, perhaps, she will give me her hand? 
That she never does. I have seen her stroke the 
head of Mengen’s big mastiff so softly, so grace- 
fully. Oh — her hand !” 

“ You actually, then, expect to make conditions? 
Really, my good fellow, what is to make the countess 
accede to them ?” 

“ Mercy !” 

They walked for two hours. Feldern felt ex- 
hausted in the atmosphere of this mad sentiment 
with its exorbitant desires and its absolute hope- 
lessness. He promised, not without secret misgiv- 
ing, to tell Faustine of Clemens’s misery at the idea 
of having wounded her ; and then exacted that 
Waldorf should wait her good pleasure with entire 
patience : above all, that he should not fall again 
into dissipation and bad company, which only un- 
fitted him for better society. 

Don’t brag of your good society,” said Clemens, 
angrily. “ Things happen in it that bad company 
blushes at ; and as to its conversation, bah ! In bad 
company one knows what to expect. There is no 
deceit and no offense. But in your elegant, culti- 


Countess Obernau. 


ig8 


vated refinement ! Oh, the piquant jests ! The 
filth is. well hidden, no doubt, under the veneer of 
a mock delicacy — asafoetMa aux confitures. Men 
talk loosely enough among themselves, degrading 
all that is best, and then under a thin mask it is the 
same thing in a salon; some women blush, some pre- 
tend not to hear ; none have the courage to appear 
offended. At last they do hear ; they listen ; they 
are — amused — it comes to that. I should think their 
fingers would tingle to strike a man across the lips 
for his boldness. And amid it all, young girls grow 
up — women, young and beautiful like Faustine. I 
know one man that goes to her house — I can see 
him — he is an old man ; he lolls in his seat with his 
cane between his knees. His chin hangs down like 
a bag of jelly ; his coarse, red cheeks are puffed out 
like bellows ; his bloodshot eyes protrude, his lips 
are like sausages, and this creature begins to talk — 
the devil knows about what. His innuendoes are 
said enough and they have no end. No one else can 
speak without being at once slain by a glance from 
his bad eye. He smirches everything. Nothing is 
too pure. Such men should be suppressed like 
certain books. Yet, he is good society — spare me 
your good society ! Not three days would I let 
Faustine stay among such. When she sits opposite 
this low ferret — Kirchberg, I think they call him — 


Countess Obernau, 


199 


I feel sick. He said something once — she laughed 
— I trembled ; but she had laughed in scorn.” 

And so he went over it all, like a monomaniac, 
losing himself in the extravagances of his fixed 
idea. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

Notwithstanding his tirade against good society, 
Clemens still promised Feldern to avoid bad com- 
panions. The latter arrived at Faustine’s door with 
a wearied sense of a long-continned drain upon his 
sympathies. He found her in good humor and 
willing to receive the recreant once more into her 
good graces. He did not tell her, however, the 
plight in which he had found the young man, for 
he thought that if anything good was to come to 
the poor fellow her hand must not be withdrawn 
from him. 

“ His birthday is to-morrow,” Feldern said. 

When Clemens came to see her early the next 
morning she received him kindly and warmly. 

“ Now, my lost son, this little wreath is to cele- 
brate, at the same time, your return and your birth- 
day,” and she threw toward him a wreath of fresh 
spring flowers. “ I do not know anything sweeter 
r2ool 



Countess Obernau. 


201 


to give you than these, which have bloomed between 
snow and ice. They speak of hope, the best of gifts.” 

‘‘ I trust little in hope,” replied Clemens, gloomily. 

What a materialist !” 

‘‘ Realities fill me so little, I don’t care to even 
dream of them any more. I am no materialist.” 

Ah ! One cannot help hoping,” she said ; and 
then suddenly : Have you fixed on a time for your 
journey to Oberwaldorf ?” 

“ I haven’t thought of it.” 

And what says your brother to that ?” 

“ Nothing ; he says little enough when he talks 
a great deal. As we don’t correspond, I hear noth- 
ing from him.” 

“ I often think the life there better — wiser for 
you, dear Clemens. And later, who knows — some 
great happiness may come to you.” 

Is exile your birthday wish for me ?” 

Exile ! Clemens, you know I wish you well. I 
never lie.” 

“Oh, the world teaches one to make fine phrases ; 
they are not lies.” 

“ But one keeps those for the world — not for one’s 
friends. They deserve better things at our hands. 
Fine phrases to them would be lies.” 

“ Well, then, don’t wish me happiness — do some- 
thing toward it.” 


202 


Countess Obernau, 


Oh, theories are easier than practice ! What can 
I do for you? Shall I paint you a pretty picture?’' 

“ Your own.” 

No ; I am tired of myself ; let others paint 
me.” 

Faustine was so bored with the strain of weighing 
her every word lest the barrier she wished to pre- 
serve might give way, that she welcomed, with ill- 
disguised pleasure, the arrival of Cunigunde and 
her father as an interruption of this trying tete-h-tete. 

A cold consent to the girl’s plan of independence 
had been wrung from Frau von Stein. The sisters 
had cried, and then dried their tears ; but the father 
was heart-broken. 

She is young, and I am old,” he said. ‘‘ I sup- 
pose we must think of her future ; the old have 
none. I should have lost her had she married, and 
then she might have been unhappy. Now I must 
hope that I may still live to see her happy.” But 
his heart was sore. 

Cunigunde sat near him and rested her hand 
upon his. She had entered into that peculiar phase 
of feeling that all of us have known when long- 
fought obstacles have been removed to a long- 
sought end. A reaction which seemed like apathy 
possessed her. She felt as if she had dreamed and 
awakened. The day of her expectation had come. 


Countess Obernau. 


203 


It had risen colorless and cold, and the girl shivered 
a little. 

Mengen came in and renewed his acquaintance 
with Herr von Stein and his daughter, and spoke 
so cheerfully and heartily about his family that a 
weight seemed lifted from all hearts. 

What a sunshine he always seems to bring,'' 
thought Faustine. 

Matilde's marriage, too, was to take place shortly. 

“ I am glad for the lovers and glad for you, Cuni- 
gunde," said Faustine. “Such an occasion draws 
people together. One doesn’t remain a stranger 
long in a house where one has laughed or cried in 
sympathy.” 

“ I shall soon follow you, mademoiselle, and bring 
you letters and messages from your own people,” 
said Mario, “ for I can’t let such a happy occurrence 
take place without me.” 

“ Anything so happy ?” asked Faustine, but Men- 
gen did not hear the low-spoken words. 

“ I am glad, Count Mengen, you still believe in a 
merry wedding,” said Herr von Stein. “Why 
should such a step be taken mysteriously ? I like 
the old way— the dance and the frolic. For me, 
Cunigunde's marriage — ” 

The girl looked up with imploring eyes. 

“Ah, well,” said the old man, “ that is over.” 


204 


Countess Obernau, 


Cunigunde was to start the next day. 

Feldern came with the intention of saying good- 
by to her, but his heart failed him and he turned 
and did not go in. The girl parted from P'austine 
with a quick and tremulous farewell. The old man 
asked Countess Obernau’s permission to come and 
see her sometimes to talk with her about his 
daughter. 

“ You, too, will soon bring me some word of my 
darling child ?” he said to Mario. 

At dawn the next morning, after a night spent at 
a hotel in the city, father and daughter parted. 

'‘And you are going, too?” said Faustine to 
Mengen. " I shall be very lonely. I wish it were 
Clemens who is going home.” 

“ I return soon,” said Mario. '• My parents wish 
me to come ; they need me.” 

“ I wonder will I ever see you again,” she 
said. 

“ Why not ?” he asked. 

She did not answer him, and they both fell into 
a mood where jesting seemed impossible. Her sad- 
ness was contagious. He felt her influence to be 
so overwhelming that it decided him upon seeking 
some explanation. 

“Since I belong to her so entirely,” he said to 
himself, “ she must be mine ! And what do I fear? 


Countess Obernmi, 


205 


She is free as I am. But will she give herself ? 
She must if she love me — if ?" 

He cursed the doubt which his mind harbored 
while his heart repudiated it. 

Eight days were to elapse before Mengen’s de- 
parture, and a mist of unexplained trouble seemed 
to hang over Faustine. She felt as if her steps 
were bending toward some dangerous abyss of 
which she could yet hardly see the deadly peril. 

How can he go ? Does he not see and feel how 
necessary he has become to me ? It has been like 
fresh air— like spring ; and the spring is here and 
he is going.” 

Sometimes she reasoned with herself that the 
weeks would soon pass; that Audlau, whose last 
letter promised as much,' would return, and that 
this sense of desolateness would then leave her. 
But somehow Audlau’s return seemed to have be- 
come shadowy to her, like a future dimly veiled — 
she could fathom nothing. She could not under- 
stand herself. Some strange new sadness seemed 
to grasp at her heart-strings. Unconsciously she 
found herself comparing and thinking of these two 
men. Would they like each other? Both were 
strong and decided. Audlau could be cutting to 
those who did not please him. She wondered if 
they did not like each other, if they would clash in 


2o6 


Countess Obernau, 


mutual repulsion. Somewhere in the depths of her 
being Faustine was disturbed. Had she possessed 
the courage, the strength and the reason to look 
the thing straight in the eyes, to recognize in 
Mario’s absence her only salvation, she might still 
have broken the spell that was slowly but surely 
encircling her in its vise-like grasp. Could she 
quietly have spoken to Mengen before he had 
spoken a word to her of the sole claim another 
held, and, through a short pain, restored him to 
that position of frank and honest friendship which 
had characterized the early days of their acquaint- 
ance, in his gradually regained calm she might 
have regained her own. Unfortunately, at this 
crisis, her reason, her strength and her courage — 
failed. 

Toward Clemens in these days she was kinder and 
more lenient than formerly — less irritated than of 
old by his mistakes, and less prone to find fault with 
him. Perhaps she felt a sudden, vague terror and 
pity for any one who was the prey of such madness. 
What will a woman not do for pity ? Pen cannot 
write or words paint the harm it brings to them — 
least of all for men to read ; for pity is with men 
the grave of love. It is not always so with a woman, 
yet a man makes, a mistake who sees in every ex- 
pression of pity a token of love. While a woman 


Countess Obernau. 


207 


may not reciprocate a man’s sentiment, pity some- 
times assumes a garb so friendly that things are 
said and done that mislead, and this peculiarly when 
there is no such tie as that, for instance, which bound 
Cunigunde and Feldern. A woman is hardly to be 
blamed then if a smile, a glance, a sweet word 
spoken are interpreted as a promise. Women of a 
certain temperament, ardent, easily touched, forget 
afterward, and it is called a crime. But it is only 
their generosity that leads to this unconscious 
cruelty — a cruelty that lurks in a larger sense in a 
man’s nature. 

Clemens was happy. 

I knew I would touch her,” he thought. 

At first he had only hoped she would accept his 
devotion ; but — now — he hardly acknowledged to 
himself what he hoped. 

Had such a love ever existed and won nothing 
back? 

“ Mengen gone,” so the young man reasoned, 
“ she will miss him for a time, of course ; he is to 
her an agreeable acquaintance ; but what proves 
that they do not care for each other is this journey ; 
he could not leave her.” 

The thought of Audlau sometimes came to tor- 
ment him, and he would wonder : 

“ Does that old love still linger? He has left her 


2o8 


Countess Obernau. 


six months, and she has lived happily enough. 
What man is there that sinks into despair, as I do, 
out of her presence ? No, my heart only has known 
hers.” 

Sometimes he would sit a long time near her, 
silently watching her like some dumb animal, while 
she was wrapped in her own reflections. What 
were they? She drew or painted, and Clemens 
came in the early hours, when he knew that she 
would be alone. He asked very little of her. He 
tried not to disturb her. She seemed often lOwSt to 
him in her work and thoughts. She was, indeed ! 
If it occasionally occurred to her that her visitor 
was entirely neglected she would come out of her 
reverie and give him a kind nod and word and 
recognize his presence. He would then fancy she 
pleased to have him there. “ She wants me to 
remain,” he thought, with that strange and per- 
sistent delusion of a monomaniac. 

There is a nice book,” she would sometimes 
say. “ Read a chapter to me,” and he would re- 
joice so to serve her, thinking : “ She might have 
sent me away.” But Faustine only wished in kind- 
ness to save him from the past consequences of his 
infatuation. 

The evening before Mengen’s departure her salon 
was full of people. He himself came in late. She 


Countess Obernau, 


209 


was talking wjtli vivacity to hide the unspeakable 
sadness that of late oppressed her. Indifferent ob- 
servers judge so superficially that she had deceived 
them all. The conversation had turned upon her 
name. They asked her how she came by it. “ My 
father was Goethe-mad. He wanted to call his 
eldest son ‘Faust/ but as his children were twin 
daughters, I received the name of ‘ Faustine.’ Well, 
my mother, who thought it barbarous, called my 
little sister ‘ AdMe.’ My mother died a week later, 
and my father did not long survive to be reminded, 
through me, of his favorite poem. My godfather 
‘ Faust ' has always had a weird interest for me. I 
used to think that in his restless striving, in his 
hunger and thirst for attainment, I saw fore- 
shadowed my own destiny ; but the second part 
has made it impossible to me. I think we all write 
our own second part to Faust.” 

“ I do not think so,” said Count Kirchberg. “ Faust 
is the true story of all men who try to win and 
bring down heaven, piling Ossa on Pelion, like the 
old Titans, but never reaching what was never to be 
theirs— satisfaction. The stream of sensual pleas- 
ures is powerful, no doubt, and love, too, is wide ; 
yet how contracted, after all, since it ends in satiety. 
Faust tries ambition— the glory of the world and 
its vanity. It all remains an insipid game. Art 


210 


Countess Obernau. 


treats him no better when he throws himself into 
her arms. As a last resource he tries good works 
and the love of his kind. But a certain lukewarm- 
ness and discontent remain with him, and he is 
thankful enough to take French-leave of this world 
and to disappear into the Elysian Fields.’' 

“Ah, Faust only played at all these things; he 
did not work for their attainment. Better do some- 
thing that even Mephistopheles laughs at, since, 
with all his worldly wisdom, he was only a poor 
stupid devil after all. I don’t believe things are 
unattainable. I don’t believe there are any limits 
to divine mercy.” 

“Write a second part to Faust,” said Feldern, 
laughingly. 

“ I would rather live it ; writing is such a poor 
echo of life. I hope that in a hundred years all 
writers will have been sent to Botany Bay. We 
have too many of them.” 

“ What ! Send them off, and all the pleasure they 
give us?” 

“ Oh, pleasure ! They live for me they think for 
me. I would rather live and think for myself— 
draw my own conclusions, right or wrong, than 
take any one’s else.” 

When Mengen came in Faustine’s false spirits 
fell. 


Countess Obernau. 


211 


“You look tired,” lie said, quietly sitting down 
beside her. 

“ Oh, to death !” she said, sinking back. 

“ Why do you talk when you have no heart in it ?” 

“Why, you never obey your heart. You leave, 
and yet you know you want to stay. What are you 
going to that horrid wedding for?” 

He did not reply, but with infinite tact took upon 
himself the burden of leading the others into a 
conversation so animated that she could, unnoticed, 
remain silent. 

After a while they one by one took leave. She 
said her good-bys rather absently. And then these 
two were left alone. There was a moment of em- 
barrassment. Faustine broke it. She rose and put 
out her hands to him. 

Au revoir, my friend,” she said. 

“ Can I leave you so ?” he said to Faustine. “ I 
cannot !” and drew her to himself with the violence 
born of a long control. It seemed as if he would 
break her slight form. She trembled. 




CHAPTER XXV. 

That is not right,” she said, eluding him. 

Pardon, Faustine,” he said, simply, and he re- 
leased her ; “ but you see — I love you.” 

She freed herself and stepped away from him 
quickly, throwing her head backward with a sudden 
movement. Her whole being seemed to irradiate 
as if transfigured. An ineffable triumph swept 
across her eyes and brow, and went to lose itself in 
a mysterious smile that lingered on her lips. It was 
the smile of a dreamy Bacchante. She looked up 
and reached out her arms as if seeking for support, 
and in a low tone of ecstasy she sighed, rather than 
whispered : 

“ He loves me.' 

“ Where will you take the pain and the passion if 
not to me, Faustine?” he said, intoxicated, and 
throwing his arms once more about her, he held her 
as if he would claim her to himself. 

[ 212 ] 


Countess Obernau. 


213 


He loves me,” she repeated with the same ex- 
ultation. She drew his head down between her two 
hands and looked at him, still dreamily. ‘‘ It is not 
true,” she said. 

“Not true ? Oh, Faustine, have you not felt that 
my whole being is lost in yours ? That my heart 
has only learned to beat through yours ? My mind 
to think, my steps to follow you ? Is not that love, 
Faustine ?” 

As the rosy glacier grows paler and paler when 
the night’s gray shadows fall and envelop it, so she 
blanched, leaning as if broken on Mario’s breast. 

“ How terrible !” she said. 

“ ' Terrible ?’ Faustine ; why, angel of sweetness, 
you love me ?” 

“I?” and she passed her hand over her forehead ; 
‘‘I — you? You are strangely mistaken. Count 
Mengen.” 

A sudden fear froze the young man’s blood. He 
pushed her from him almost menacingly and called 
her once more by name. She sank into her chair 
like a dead flower that the storm has touched too 
roughly. Large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. 
vShe was as seductive in the abandonment of this 
attitude as she had been a moment before in the 
first surprise of passion. Mario found no courage to 
leave her. 


Countess Obernau, 


214 


“ How can you lie ?” he said, kneeling beside her. 

“ I do not lie,” she whispered, not looking at him. 

He laid his folded hands upon her knees and said : 

“ Look at me firmly and quietly and then answer 
me : Do you not love me, Faustine ?” 

“ No,” she said, so low that her voice died almost 
unheard, but her eyes met his, and he cried in 
rapture 

“ Your beautiful false lips lie, but your eyes say 
‘Yes,’ Faustine ; I believe them only !” 

“ No, no,” she cried in hot anguish, covering her 
eyes with her hands, “ do not trust to their treachery ; 
the mouth tells the truth.” 

“ Faustine,” said Mengen with unspeakable agita- 
tion, “ if you really do not love me, if all was a game 
— the amusement of an idle moment ; if you have 
squandered loveliness and grace in vulgar coquetry, 
if the whole thing has been a jest to you, if you an- 
atomized my heart-strings out of idle curiosity — then 
I have no expression for my contempt !” 

“ Mario,” cried Faustine, sinking on her knees to 
the earth, “ I love you !’ 

He lifted her up, clasped her again against his 
breast and drank on her sad mouth the ineffable 
bliss for which he had so longed. But Faustine 
met the masculine fire with which his lips sought 
hers with an almost faltering timidity. She made 


Countess Obernmt. 


215 


a slight motion whose demand love alone could 
understand — a movement as if she would be free ; 
and Mario obeyed instantly, releasing her, or rather, 
held her still, but lightly, supporting her slender 
figure, it is true, but not so closely to himself. 

'‘Why do you drive back upon itself the over- 
flowing of my feeling, Faustine ? Oh, let my heart 
for a moment find rest in yours, beloved angel, now 
that I have known the truth.’* 

“You don’t know it all,” she said chokingly. 

“ There is nothing else ; you love me, and to- 
morrow you will come with me to my parents, and 
then we will be married, beautiful darling, and go 
wherever you like ; but you won’t leave me again, 
Faustine,” and he drew her soft hair through his 
fingers, gently touching the little locks that grew 
low on her forehead. 

“ Let me go !” she said, with deepest melancholy. 
“ Nothing can help us — there is no hope.” 

“ Is it Audlau ?” he cried, paling and grasping 
her arm with mute violence. “ Answer me !” 

She said no word, but cowered as one whom a 
death-blow has reached in the midst of health and 
of life. 

“ Don’t you see how much harder it will be to 
part now?” she said gently. “ Oh, why did I not 
keep back the word of love !” 


2i6 


Countess Obernau, 


‘'Speak to me, unhappy child,” said Mengen, 
huskily. “ Why must we part ? Who has a holier 
claim than I have ? If another has had claims, they 
are mine the moment you love me. I will have 
you, Faustine, undisputed to me — alone, alone, my 
own — ” 

“ I understand you,” she interrupted ; “ but how 
could I be happy an hour, knowing that I had 
broken another’s whole life ? How could I say the 
word that should keep you beside me. Oh, it is im- 
possible to me, Mario. Yes, you yourself know it.” 

“ Faustine, you love me — only me. That must 
decide.” 

“ No, Mario, it is Audlau that I love. I gave him 
the keeping of my whole future. He has been a 
guide to me — true, generous, unswerving.” 

“ Really — not me ? Not me — my heart ? Try and 
remember.” 

She sank down at his feet, clinging to his knees 
and pressing her forehead against him with a low, 
moaning cry. 

Shocked, he tried to lift her up, but she begged : 

“ Let me be here, Mario, and don’t talk to me so. 
Oh, Mario, have some pity ! Oh, ray of sunshine, 
how is it possible not to love you?” 

She wept passionately. 

“ My angel, tell me all — all that troubles you,” he 


Countess Obernau. 


217 


said gently, stooping over her. “It is so dark. 
When I know all some light must come to me, and 
I must decide. Come, the truth — the pure truth, as 
before your Maker !” 

“ As before my Maker,” she replied fervently. 

She sprang up, and they looked at each other. 

Mario sat in his usual attitude, with folded arms, 
leaning against the table, where the wax candles 
cast a faint gleam upon him. The pallor of his face, 
convulsed with deep emotion, the glow of his dark 
eyes, thrown out in deep relief by the back of the 
fauteuil^ made him look like some painting of 
Velasquez. 

Faustine stood before him in a fuller light. Her 
soft white dress, her swaying figure, seemed almost 
unreal. Her lips and rounded chin were illumined 
by the glow of the lights, her brow and eyes partly 
in shadow. He, quiet, firm, immovable ; she, waver- 
ing, so that one could not tell if she would fall to 
earth or be caught up to heaven. He, all man ; she, 
all woman. 

“vSpeak, my angel,” said Mario, softly. “I will 
not ask a question. No word of mine shall inter- 
rupt you.” 

“ What is it I have to tell ?” Faustine asked her- 
self, passing her hand over her brow. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


“ Ah !” she said, “ what eyes can go deeper than 
the surface ? And in these esquisses de la vie, what 
outside glance ever really penetrates? Truth is 
hard. When it does not lie it is sometimes unbe- 
lievable. 

My sister and I, our pension education over, 
poor little orphans, came to live with an aunt, who 
had a fine landed estate in the neighborhood of 
Bamberg. I think I was very much like other 
young girls. People talk of the experiences of 
childhood; I look back to mine as to an un- 
awakened time, and hardly know what I was or 
felt. I think I was an earnest and happy child. 
My girlhood was serious and studious. I am a 
Catholic, you know, but I don’t think I was ever 
very dJvote, I loved books, animals and nature 
[218] 


Countess Obernau. 


219 


en bloc, and my aunt least of all. All my experi- 
ence with the world has never yet taught me to 
cope with an intrigante. I never yet felt at ease 
with her. 

“ We met men at her house. Of course I danced 
sometimes with some of them, and their compli- 
ments made me laugh. Only Count Obernau 
seemed to feel hurt at my laughter. He was a 
handsome fellow, with regular features and a proud 
bearing. He belonged to an excellent family, and 
was rich. He was a young captain of cavalry, and 
twenty-seven. I pleased this man from the first, 
and he told me afterward he meant me to be his 
wife as soon as ever he saw me. 

“ Love to me in those days was as colorless a 
thing as is the prism before it comes between the 
eyes and the sun. His comrades could not doubt 
the success of such a parti. And then he was such 
a good fellow — spent his money freely, and was in 
for every frolic, and had such a charming weakness 
of character that a child could guide him. 

"‘All these qualities, added to money and posi- 
tion, were indisputable advantages. When Ober- 
nau, therefore, threw down his handkerchief like a 
Sultan to me, and signified his admiration, other 
young men would have hardly dared to place them- 
selves in rivalry. It seemed a universal under- 


2 20 


Countess Obernau. 


standing that he and I belonged to one another. 
Obernau, and forever Obernau, was rung into my 
ears. 

“ My aunt could not conceal her satisfaction, and 
she spoke of him always in a tone intended to im- 
press me. At first she praised his excellent quali- 
ties ; then she lamented over the bad influences his 
selfish friends exerted over his straight, simple 
nature. ‘ A good, noble woman,’ she would say 
^ could lead him to greater seriousness — could 
change him. There is a wife’s most glorious call.” 

“ It must be confessed that while I had little con- 
fidence in my aunt, I had a great deal of respect for 
her cleverness. What she said seemed wise. Per- 
haps it is — if only the wife who gives herself to this 
heroic effort is a self-controlled woman herself, and 
not to be dragged down. I was an inexperienced 
child. What did I know of it all? If anybody 
wanted it, why, of course, it must be right. I en- 
gaged myself to Obernau. If I were to say that I 
was forced — if I were to say that I disliked him — it 
would be a lie. No, I liked him, and listened to 
him willingly enough. Then my sister, who had 
been married to a man whom 1 thought insupport- 
able, seemed happy. From this I concluded that 
men must develop rare attractions after marriage, 
and my own preparations were made. 


Countess Obernau. 


221 


“ As the hour drew near, however, a change came 
over me. I grew breathless with a sort of wonder. 
I am not given to presentiments, but I felt as if 
some tormenting augury was to be fulfilled. This 
nameless and vague anxiety was foreign to my tem- 
perament. To whom should I speak? My aunt 
hated all analysis of feelings, particularly of such as 
clashed with her own wishes. She never said : ‘ Do 
not speak of them \ but she knew how to avoid all 
confidences. My sister, I have said, was married. 
It had made an enormous separation between us. 
Her husband was unattractive to me, and she seemed 
to have drifted from me. There is a certain vir- 
ginity of soul more touching than that represented 
by the orange wreath. Alas, alas ! That it is often 
lost before this is worn — nearly always fades with it. 
It cannot resist the love of material things. My 
sister was soon lost in the interests of her new pos- 
sessions, and sitting down in quiet self-satisfaction 
seemed to have abjured all the poetic dreams of our 
girlhood. She was of that type that take root in 
their household. She has stepped hand in hand 
with her own fate ; she has been in accord with it. 
One can say of her what I can never hear said of a 
woman without a shudder : ‘ She would have made 
any man happy.’ People think that is the highest 
eulogy they can bestow on a maiden. Well, I never 


222 


Countess Obernau. 


deserved that praise. To whom was I to turn with 
my empty forebodings ? I decided to speak to 
Obernau. 

“We were alone in the garden one evening, and 
a certain sadness of the approaching autumn had 
thrown its shadow on my young heart. I‘ told him 
timidly of some of my fears. 

“ * All girls are so !’ he said, laughing broadly, 
and his merriment, jarring on' my mood, silenced 
me. Thinking it over afterward, I concluded that 
perhaps he was right. When I next broached the 
subject of my fears to him he changed his tone, 
and said he loved me so much — surely he would do 
all he could to make me happy, and that if I left 
him it would break his heart. This decided me. 
‘ I will make him happy at all costs.’ And now I 
awaited the wedding-day with a certain feverish 
impatience. I became his wife. How long ago it 
all seems to me now.” 

Faustine’s head dropped like a broken lily, and 
she trembled from head to foot. When after a 
pause she resumed her recital, her flower-like face 
was paler than marble. 

“ I have overlived it,” she said, and laughed. 

Mario had never heard such bitter laughter from 
her lips before. 

“Be quiet, Faustine,” he said, laying his hand 


Countess Obernau. 


223 


upon hers for a moment ; “ for your own sake be 
quiet.” 

“ Pardon me, Count Mengen,” she said ; “ don’t 
interrupt me. You wished to know my biography. 
Have you ever heard of the fountain of the Nixies ? 
They say if once you move away the stone, it rises, 
rises, rises, until it inundates the whole land in its 
cruel devastation. Oh, that flood of the unknown ! 
Were you wise to put a ruthless hand upon it — to 
disturb the stone ? Does it not even shake you in 
its rush and flood ? I am not going to read you a 
homily against marriage. People look in it for 
different things. Perhaps half of the women are 
satisfied, but among them all there will be one to 
whom it has proved a sacrifice which she is either 
too strong or too weak to support. Oh, this one ! 
There is no provision for her in your laws, and no 
escape, and from her ill-concealed unhappiness God 
and man withdraw their hand. People are content 
to laugh at her eccentricities ; for suffering, you 
know, sometimes makes people peculiar. Oh, this 
one ! There are troubles before which every one 
bows the knee — grand sorrows, decorated sorrows, 
triumphant sorrows — rose red ; but with this kind 
you do not coquette, this kind you bury shyly in 
your bosom until it becomes a grave.” 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

She wrung her nands and moved away a little as 
if forgetful of his presence, buried in the pain of her 
past. 

“ Oh, the careless swimmer who springs into the 
seething sea ! What a labyrinth to enclose an inno- 
cent child ! And the people stand looking on, curi- 
ous, prying into the secrets of this new pair, wishing 
they might lift the veil that the girl in her delicacy 
draws closer and closer about her, and if the vaguest 
suspicion of unhappiness pierces through the ex- 
ternal advantages, if those pretty eyes are suspected 
of shedding tears in secret, there are plenty of 
knights-errant ready to wipe them off. 

“ In those days I wept for myself ; lately it has 
been more for the misery of others. I was astonished 
at the admiration I inspired, and sometimes the 
[224] 















'v*'4mk‘?k 




WS, 




-^•-!-Y«iriw 






KAUSriXE STOOD BEFORE HIM IN A FELLER LIOHT.— .V<!C laye 217 





Wv\ ;-r w ^ " 

'• s V r •■* ' V .r 

ICTI -fc • 


' • . ' - ■ • !gaii 

^vi,.,>,- 5 v’ :v.. . • ^>-. :', 

. * -> ■ T ..■ - •* I ' ‘ ' ^* ^ 

riF T «. 











' .» ;“■ ' ;.... i, :t 

~k^ • A 


T. » 





I , 




¥^- 


' ■ ■ -‘ 4 -.. * ; ■- 

^ T •'. ■ - V 

. . ,Sr ^ I , ■■ i .1 

• . , ---. • ., . ,i''*- - > ’ i 

' A - • • * * , : * *' 

, » * » V -^ ‘ » •' I • - » * i-V ^ -s. * 

•-- • '■ ^ • • 't 


>• < 


• * ♦ •• 




^ *. ' 
V* 


rv>'. 

• .» • ^ , f ' • * * , ♦ . 

■ f ' ^ ^ • ■. •- • 


\ ^• 




j", ^i • 

, • t . »* .’ • 


* » 


'• ^ . • h. •N ■« • ■ • 

' * • • :• >y ' ' 

^ ■ V *' **'t ^ , . •’ 

'. ' ^ • .^ *^ ' i- »«^ • » , • % ' 

k.:. . ' ^ v" • 


♦ 


>* . 

5 't^ 



.. 






•*5. 


j ' 

, j| » ■» 


. • 






• . / 


% - 

' •», . 


' V-' .w _n’ ^ , ■* . , - • ' 

ti.t ■•.■..’^=V; ' . ■ •■'■•• , ■ , }^’ •’'■ 

‘ ■* ’ ‘ . . V. * ' . < 'll ** 

. / .'«■ I . ^ . . 


V * 



‘4 


■• » ■ ** 


> \ 


'^ ^ -=* t_L-* 


J-' 


t . • .• 

y ' ' * 

. < 




■ - 


r A ► ' 'll: 

' * .* Tf k 

/'■A 


1 


. S«- t* 

- t ' 


^ * 




‘ * 


V *. 




V ^ • «•■ 

■■■ •■ 


*• 
» ‘ 


•'-f 

. t 






V. « 


•;> 


# V-. 




./ • • •* 

#k • « 

■ •■■ ..- i 

> 

^ •*■ 

• y- . 


. . V-:^ 'I 

... 

-k ■ ’•-■■ '■ *' 

• • .> 


^ - - - 

.1} y^. 




• ♦ 
$ 


1 




* A '* 


0 

. / 


^ *• *' 


*. *'■ 

•4 

« t'l 


* ^ 

S' 


‘ ' V 


V ‘ /• • 








'••AS 


« ». 




• ■•;*.••. : , ■■ 


• • 


. ^r!> 


4- s 

.A 


w** 


■ V; 

■ - . . .j '/ ‘ * 


’ • .* ** 


* ■* 


\ I 


V • 




■.V 


•» . 


If 4 


w • 




‘ ’. K - • 


v) • 


> 


'a* 

•.i^^ 






«» . 




I* 


I *' 




■ •* 


... • . A * 

' * 






• t* 


V 


• ^ » 4' ■ 

* ' ■’ * • 


4 • 




A. S ‘ ^ 

•- . • 


» • 
.. ^ ' is 


■<,- 




r 1 


^ . r • 


- ^ ^ ^ .:L 

• V> % -V . 


: 

I 

.•?. 


^ • ' 
i •* Vi I. 

— •> « ' 

. -j ‘ « 


’* V 


•■; .. . . ■ . 

* ••• ^ .*‘*»’ " . » 

^ ^ Vj *V. * ‘ • •% 

■ V : :• ••' " 


i ■ i« .. 




.i.- ■• \s ^ f 

. , . , ►. « . ^ 

^ • i * ^ ' i-'' XJt -'i . I A. « 

- / -I--' •>- 

V •.-« • • r , . A . W r, 

• > * -*..(•.• 

« 






■ < 


’•’*\ ^ ■' ' ■ ■ f ■ • . . . • ■ x, i < . ' ^ V ' '/7 *■ i 

• .(/■ ■ •• .. •' - '.. ’■ ^V''>•; •■ - ■ 

A *V ' , U/', ^ '^•^ ' . JV '' ' ' ■• ‘ 

:>-■ '; •: ■-.■ _1A --'i* . • ' •■/■'../■•, 

' ® _ ■ .■ « |f I i * ' . ^ ' I * * ♦ ^ .*- ' 

, .V' V- ■\::7 ■:-• 

^ ^ I'* • ^ • ^>-4. 1 


•y. • 


.V,- ’’ 

-"A .- V 


t w 


• ■• 

7 V 




r. 


V- i' ^ 


- T- ^ 

' 

■ ' ■ *^ • *• * 1 

i. 

' ; V ' 


* r 


I s< 

A 


.‘'- ^r* Vi'^*': 



‘‘v- 




ScmV.v h>^.' * ■' -a 



.;.;-..N'i •■'>'' .^S 


Countess Obernau, 


225 

sense of my own power gave me a feeling of degra- 
dation. Under the halo of the law, encircled by 
every protection, I felt as if there were wanting 
some security to my future. So I entered very 
young into a bitter frame of mind. I felt a secret 
detestation for those who fawned upon me because 
I was rich and ci la mode. I groped in the hated 
bondage of a marriage to which I had brought no 
love. Tell me : Is the mark of my slavery still on 
my forehead ? I wore a mailed armor about me, it 
is true, to conceal my sorrow, and armed myself 
with a light and careless frivolity of manner. I 
treated most men with a contempt that led them 
soon to fall into adoration. The outward brilliancy 
of my position jarred with the deen inward discon- 
tent that gnawed me. 

‘‘ My husband loved and admired me h sa facoriy 
but in his companionship I found nothing but the 
most corroding ennui or at times an impatient dis- 
gust. I was considered the most enviable of women ; 
I knew myself to be unspeakably miserable. I would 
have liked to raise my husband’s mind to sympathy 
with some of my own tastes, but I was married to a 
clod, and a clod he would remain. I was his play- 
thing when he felt in the mood ; he asked nothing 
more of a woman. I could, no doubt, have acquired 
a more complete mastery over him, but I despised 


226 


Countess Obernau, 


the means too much and the acted part. Perhaps I 
was too young to be wise. 

“We gradually grew apart. I went my way, he 
went his. He did not trouble himself very much 
about what I did ; I was his wife and he loved me 
— why should he ? He had hosts of friends, and I 
was thrown almost entirely into the society of men. 
I read with them, I drove with them, I chatted with 
them — not because they particularly pleased me, 
but because they fbrced themselves upon me. My 
impertinences amused them, and when I ignored 
them they were piqued. They were not a very nice 
set. In my childish ignorance I fancied all men 
were much alike. I was more or less thrown with 
Obernau’s sisters, to be sure, but they only made me 
despise my own sex. One of them was about my 
own age and married. Hers was a scanty, thin 
nature that could never forgive me that my eyes 
were larger and my feet smaller than her own. The 
other, a young girl of thirty-eight, had from time 
immemorial led a train de vie that more or less 
alarmed aspirants to her hand in spite of her hand- 
some dowry. Now quite passt^e and without charm, 
she posed for a femme hicomprise, and said she had 
given her heart to God. Possibly this was because 
no man had appreciated the gift. This sterile piety, 
so late assumed, was a sort of tepid bath in which 


Countess Obernau. 


227 


Crescenz was steeping her past follies. The sisters 
were only of accord on one subject, and that was 
that there never had been, nor could be, such a 
coquette as myself, nor any one so vain and so 
frivolous. Crescenz rolled up her eyes, looked 
unutterable things, and pitied her poor brother. 

“ I don’t suppose Obernau was very happy. It 
would have been a very different woman who could 
have made him so. I had had my forebodings ; he 
had not understood them. He knew nothing of 
love. And what is the mere attraction of the senses 
if not veiled by its heaven-born breath? So we 
lived together — bound — and apart. Oh, I have suf- 
fered ! Our life seemed to hold no duties. When 
Obernau was absent I used to think over all his 
good qualities, and persuade myself his faults were 
only those of a neglected education. I would lay 
plans to improve him, and nothing seemed easier. 
Then he would come„ and his first words almost 
always filled me with a sense of discouragement. 

'' Sometimes my husband came home very late, 
and I would know that he had been drinking and 
wondered, half frightened, what society he came 
from. Sometimes he was cross, peevish and de- 
pressed, and would swear at his friends and his own 
weakness. Then I was drawn to him in a sort of 
pity, and would beg him to leave the army and to 


228 


Countess Obernau, 


travel with me. He would accede. He was sick of 
the life. He would break with all old associations. 
We would go away wherever I liked — to Paris or 
Rome, and I could devote myself to my painting as 
much as I wished. I would fall asleep, rocked by 
the hope of this change — any change seemed desir- 
able. But when Obernau had rested and his ill- 
humor was over he would laugh at my projects and 
call me romantic — his pet word as applied to me. 
He thought Bamberg good enough for him. My 
love of art was made the subject of unending witti- 
cisms. His entire want of sympathy threw me back 
upon myself, and I grew cold to him. How could I 
help it ? My sisters-in-law rebuked me for my man- 
ner to Obernau and pitied him for having given his 
beautiful affection to a soulless doll like myself. 
How weary I grew of it! What rash act would 
have been inspired by my rebellious feelings I can 
not tell. It seems as if a heavy fog brooded over 
these years of marriage, and I hate to speak of 
them. It was later that the light came. I made 
the acquaintance of Audlau. Poor, hungry -hearted 
child that I was, with what unspeakable delight, 
with what inexpressible surprise did I meet one 
being with whom I found myself again 1” 

She paused a moment and then continued : 

Yes ; it was just when my discouragement had 


Countess Obernau. 


229 


reached its height that I met Audlau. I turned to 
him — and — I loved him. It did not occur to me 
that this infringed upon my duty to my husband. 
To tell you the truth, I was so entirely inexperi- 
enced that I did not recognize the sentiment. I 
did not call it love, for by that word my husband 
called his feeling for me. This seemed such an- 
other thing that I could not have so desecrated it. 
But I did love him. My mind and soul bloomed 
near him ; life opened to me. His earnest thought- 
fulness seemed to quiet my unrest; it gave the 
small things that I had despised a new worth and 
significance. He seemed to look deeply into every- 
thing. His nature, too, seemed to change in its 
contact with mine, and to gain a lightness and 
gayety unknown to his usual gravity. I felt that 
he never judged me. Undeveloped, childish, and 
often inconsequent as I was, at that time, it would 
not have answered for me to be too closely anatyzed. 
He forgot to analyze me because he loved me. My 
caprices, born of the unhappiness of my life, he 
forgave. A common man would have taken ad- 
vantage of me, but Audlau was only touched. He 
used to smile and say the cold influences of the 
world would eventually calm the impulsiveness of 
my temperament. Alas, that we were shipwrecked 
in these aspirations ! 


230 


Countess Obernau. 


“We were thrown much together. Strong in 
the sense of my innocence, I cared nothing for 
what the world might say. I felt so happy ; I had 
found a man I could respect. Obernau used to 
ridicule my romantic admiration for Audlau, but 
he did not seem to object to it. Perhaps he did 
not think me warm enough to feel a mighty love. 
Men always think a woman cold who has not re- 
ciprocated their own sentiment. He thought me of 
marble. 

“Will you let me hasten over this ?” said Faustine. 
“ I cannot linger upon it. 

“ It was the old story. In my young head and 
heart there gradually grew a tumult that Obernau 
never guessed. There were moments when I began 
to dream of means to escape the pressure of my 
unhappy marriage, for love goes through its phases 
of development and so mine had to grow into a 
pain. Bound to one--loving another — my mind 
was distracted and torn. I longed for my liberty. 
Well, it came to me. Crescenz was always telling 
my husband that he was a dupe. One evening, 
they found Audlau with me in my salon. For 
the first time I had spoken of my unhappiness 
to my only friend, and — I was in tears. I 
think Obernau had been drinking. He asked the 
meaning of my emotion. Then he turned to 


Countess Odernau. 


231 


Audlau and spoke some insulting words. Audlau 
met him quietly and conjured him to spare me, to 
make no scandal. I stood like a statue— wordless, 
speechless, bereft of my senses. Crescenz had not 
fanned my husband’s jealousy for nothing. It was 
only two days later when they had met, and Audlau, 
I was told, was dying, that I knew what to do. Like 
a tigress I rushed to him. I left my home. Reserve — 
all was lost. I never left his side through his illness. 
The world and Obernau were lost to me. My life 
belonged to him who suffered for me. I don’t know 
anything more. I nursed him while his life hung 
between life and death, and I prayed for him. 
Obernau, who, I think, repented of his rashness, 
ordered me to return to him, first imploringly, then 
menacingly. I had but one answer : ‘ I will not cross 
again the threshold of the man who has degraded 
me and himself in the face of the whole world.’ 
It was perhaps Obernau ’s revenge that he would 
never be separated from me. It was the same to 
me. When Audlau grew stronger I went to Nice 
alone with my maid, who would not leave me. He 
soon followed me into Italy. His wounded breast 
needed a mild climate. For two years he battled 
between life and death — two years of anguish, but 
in the midvSt of which we were happy. I lived in 
the utmost retirement, knowing nothing of and 


232 


Countess Obernau. 


caring nothing for the world. My aunt had died 
shortly after this catastrophe and had left me a 
competence and the bulk of her fortune to Adele. 
I lived upon my little inheritance, as I live now, 
simply and unostentatiously — but — free — I had 
peace. How my soul flowered under the influence 
of art and of love ! What a stream of multitudinous 
joy seemed to open me ! How safe I felt ! 

“ It was then I heard of Obernau’s death and 
could dispose of myself and my hand. I don’t 
know why I hesitated ; that is a mystery I cannot 
explain. A fear of marriage possessed me. My 
unfortunate one had filled me with bitterness. I no 
doubt had false ideas. I was disillusioned, doubting 
God, men and myself. I wanted the fruits of the 
Hesperides, but now that they were offered to me 
I trembled and hesitated. Audlau never dragged 
me down. I reveled in the sense of his devotion 
and — of no tie. I was proud and strong, and deter- 
mined to make a life for myself. This life left me 
entire liberty. We would disdain any fetters. Vis- 
a-vis of another man it would have been impossible. 
Audlau respected my resolve and said : ‘ I will wait.’ 
Of course, he has always hoped in the end to com- 
bat it. Ah, that was my ignorance and mistake — 
to think that I knew best ! He should have chained 
me to hirn. I locked myself in the sense of my 


Countess Obernau. 


233 


security and thought my feet safely upon a rock. 
To-day it has crumbled under my feet !” 

“Therefore, Faustine, you must seek another 
footing,” Mengen said, calmly and seriously, rising 
and taking her hand. “ Where you have stood till 
now there is no safety for you. Prop yourself upon 
my arm. Let me support you. I will carry you 
over all waverings and hesitations. I thank you 
that I know all — and doubly that I have not found 
anything that need separate us.” 

Faustine looked at him in a sort of mute wonder, 
passing her hand over her eyes as if to convince 
herself that she was awake. 

“ It is I that you love,” he said, “ not Audlau. If 
you loved him, could your eyes have met mine as 
they did, and — could you have hesitated ?” 

“ Ah, she said, “ they could not. I could not.” 

“ Now that you know I love you I will never leave 
you. You are bound to no man since your heart is 
free. It is a weak love that talks of sacrifice. 
Begin a new life to-day. A man who says to a 
woman : ‘ I love you,’ and is not ready to feel that 
hell itself is changed into heaven through her, and 
is not ready to throw all away for her, is a coward. 
Cowards dare not love. I am not a coward. I will 
have the courage to make you amends for all you 
suffer now and have suffered in the past in every 


234 


Countess Obernau. 


circumstance that has hurt you. You will be my 
wife, Faustine?” 

Oh, I am too untrue,” she said. 

“ What could be worse than to come between us 
two ? Can you say to him now : ^ I love another ?’ 
You love the beautiful and the lofty, Faustine ; that 
makes your own loveliness — you could not bear it. 
Well, say you are weak. I don’t want to defend this 
weakness— you might reproach me with sophistry 
or say I speak for my own advantage, but I believe 
if you were my sister I could not advise you differ- 
ently for the half of life that would be yours would 
be impossible, to one like you. This dead thing 
hanging about your neck ! Let the past lie ; the 
present is too strong for you. Choose, Faustine, 
choose,” he said, in a voice which showed that his 
self-control was almost conquered, choose ! It de- 
pends upon you now, if ever I cross this threshold 
of your room again. The love-word has been spoken, 
all is changed, it cannot rest between us — ” 

Oh, all is possible to you, Mengen ; you are 
strong.” 

'' I am human, Faustine, and I love you ! Do you 
indeed think me so strong ? The strength of years 
I have kept for you. I think I knew you were to 
come. You belong to my innermost being, Faus- 
tine, for through you I have learned to understand 


Countess Obernau. 


235 


love. Is it possible you don’t love me enough ? And 
if your mouth says no — and your actions — still — Oh, 
I cannot believe that your sweet eyes lie !” 

There you are right, Mario,” she said. 

“ You have decided, Faustine ? You will hear me? 
Oh, angel, you love me !” 

Mario’s voice trembled and a sudden moisture 
sprang to his eyes. All the calmness, all the schooled 
reserve of the man of the world had vanished. The 
shield was pierced. Faustine looked at him ; bliss 
and anguish, triumph and sorrow swept across her 
heart, and then she knew that she was powerless. As 
he had subtly said, the present conquered her ; past 
and future were blotted out. She did not speak to 
him but only took his hands and placed them around 
her neck like a yoke. 

“ Have you understood me, Mario ?” she said. 

But Mario did not reply, and Faustine found her- 
self for the first time in the presence of a sentiment 
before which her own looked pale and cold. 

Can I really then make you so happy?” she 
asked timidly. 

‘‘ Oh, your love, Faustine !” 

She opened wild eyes as he took her hand and 
led her to her writing-table. 

Novr write.” 

“ O God !” she said. 


236 


Countess Obernau. 


Then I must,” said Mario, gently. 

Are you mad ?” she cried, beside herself. No, 
only my hand is to thrust the knife into his heart. 

I know what I am doing.” 

“ In mine or in his?” said Mario. 

Faustine’s hands were of ice ; her teeth chattered. 

Write,” said Mario. It is only the decision. 
That once taken the struggle is over— peace comes. 
Faustine — write !” 

He mastered her. A sort of shame possessed her 
beside his unswerving purpose. 

“ Oh, your tenacity,” she said, “ your confidence ! 
They are God-given, Mario. What am I to struggle 
against them ? But what am I for them to depend 
upon ?” 

Lean upon me, Faustine, and write. See — noth- j 

ing else is possible. If you cast me from you now 
where will you go? You cannot go to him. Will 
he not feel that you are not the same ? Will you 
deny me, lie to him, tell him it was a passing fancy, 
that I was the amusement of an idle moment, an-d 
laugh with him at the wreck you have made ? Tell 
me, P'austine !” 

She seized the pen and wrote : 

“ Max, your last word to me has become true. I have forgotten 
you. No; not you, but myself. We must never see each other 
more, Max. With this decision I am ruining your life. I have 


Countess Obernau. 


237 


no courage to ask forgiveness. You will know best what you are 
to think of Faustine.” 

Her writing was almost illegible. Mario took up 
the sheet. He did not read it. 

Now the address, Faustine.” 

‘‘ Let us conclude the death-warrant,” she said, 
with a touch of bitter self-contempt that sent a 
quick pain through her lover’s heart ; and she 
directed the letter to Nuremberg, from which place 
Audlau’s last letter had been despatched. 

Mario sealed the letter with Faustine’s seal and 
kept it. 

“ I will send it myself,” he said. 

All this had been done in a passionless quiet, but 
now that she had obeyed, now that the last obstacle 
seemed removed, a flood of rapture invaded the 
young man’s heart. 

“ Say that you love me! Say that you love me I” 
he repeated, sinking by her side. 

“ It must indeed be so,” she said sadly, letting the 
hands that had covered her face fall into her lap. 

Hardly, however, had their eyes met when all 
pain vanished in the mutual intoxication of their 
glance. Beautiful, with a rosy flush upon her face, 
she drew his head toward her, and, with the pouting 
grace of a child, called him every sweet, endearing 
name a loving woman can invent. 


238 


Countess Obernau. 


“ Are you happy ?” she said at last. 

Not entirely, Faustine.” 

“ Oh, if you are not,” she said sorrowfully, then 
indeed I have done wrong.” 

When I came from the ball with you,” he said, . 
'‘and found that mad Clemens here, my wildest 
dreams did not venture to hope for such happiness * 
as this, but — perfectly happy I can be only when 
you are entirely mine. Come with me, beautiful 
one, to my parents. Let my sister’s wedding-day be 
ours.” 

" Am I to marry you at once ?” she said trem- 
bling. 

" Why not ?” he said proudly. “ You will think 
my name good enough, will you not? Nothing of 
me can be worthy ? But why wait ? A thousand 
can admire you. Let me protect and guard you. 
Faustine, at once — to-morrow.” 

It was only an hour since that Faustine had 
spoken uncompromising words against marriage, 
but Mario's crafty hand had disarmed her, and she 
found not one word to answer in objection to his 
wishes. 

“ ‘And he shall be thy master,’ ” says the Bible. 
“Well, Mario, whenever you wish.” 

He gathered her up into his arms. 

“ Come,” he said. 


Countess Obernau. 


239 


She made a supreme effort to be strong for them 
both. 

‘‘ Now go to your parents,” she said, pushing him 
from her. “They know nothing of me — nothing 
of us — of our love — tell them — know at least that I 
shall be welcome. Then come back and bring me 
some message from them. It will give me con- 
fidence and courage. Now — Mario — go.” 

“ But in these eight days will you not have strug- 
gles — misgivings ? I dread them for you — ” 

“ You mean that you feel no safety ; that you fear 
I may fall away from you?” she asked, with a smile 
so sad that it went to his heart with a great pity. 

“ No ; but you may lose yourself in fresh terror.” 

“ I will think that you are happy,” she said, inter- 
rupting him, “and then my terrors must cease. 
There is now no room in my soul for any thoughts 
but those of you.” 

She seemed completely exhausted, she could 
hardly speak to him. Her cheeks burned as with 
a flame, her hands were as of ice. Mario, seeing 
this, could not yet make up his mind to leave her. 

“ What might not happen during my absences ! 
I will not go to the wedding ; I will stay with you.” 

But Faustine insisted that he should bring her 
some kindly message from his parents, almost with 
a febrile insistence. 


Countess Obernati, 


240 


“ I am faint now,” she said. “ Mario, you must 
leave me — to rest.” 

It is your nerves, not your heart, that are tired ?” 
he asked her, with anxious solicitude and a tinge of 
personal uneasiness. 

“ Trust me,” she said, sadly, so far, and leave 
me. I think I shall sleep.” 

But when he had torn himself from her, Ah ! 
Why did 1 not go with him !” she cried. Chaos 
reigned in her. The elements out of which her 
new earth was to spring had not yet crystallized 
into certainty. 




CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Audlau found Faustine’s letter in Nuremberg". 
He read it without understanding it. At last one 
sentence remained clear to him : “ Wir konnen tins 
nie wieder sehen.'' It was to him as if it had been 
night at midday. 

Horses — quickly.” 

He wanted to get away, he cared not whither — 
quickly — quickly, anywhere — only to move. He 
would not let the horses have rest. Through the 
sweet, lovely spring day he was whirled first to 
Prague then to Breslau. He did not know where 
he was. At the relays the people stared at one 
who seemed bent on such haste, and who had death 
upon his face. At last he reached a great dark 
city. It seemed as if some cloud enveloped and 
brooded over the streets. The tall houses frowned 
at him. This city pleased him. It was Cracow. 
Hardly knowing what he did, he stopped his chaise 

[241] 


242 


Countess Obernau. 


de poste at the cathedral. He entered it and de- 
scended to the graves of the old Polish kings. He 
leaned against a sarcophagus, the vulture clutch of 
his desperate trouble gnawing at his heart-strings. 
In this atmosphere of everlasting silence the dust 
of death seemed to have fallen upon him with the 
dust of his happiness. A guide who lingered near 
asked him in Polish the cause of his grief. Audlau 
did not understand him. Then the old man seized 
his hand and said, with tears, in his old, trembling 
voice : ‘‘ Finis PoloniceF 

So these two stood side by side, one in the prime 
and vigor of manhood, the other bowed with the 
weariness of years. Life and death had met and 
stood hand in hand. They were both strangers; 
they could not understand each other. Each had 
his own lonely sorrow in his breast, and yet they 
were bound to each other for one moment, through 
the power of a common feeling, of a deep, un- 
fathomable, unspeakable pain. 

Audlau wrote from Cracow to Faustine : 

“ I have no word of reproach for you, no question to ask, no 
lament to make. Be happy if it is possible to you. Forget me, 
for that is the chief condition of your future happiness. Forget 
your entire past. With your temperament it will not be diffi- 
cult. AdieiiP 

For the moment, he remained in Cracow. Having 


Countess Ober^iau, 


243 


lost her, every place was the same. With her he 
had felt that he possessed the whole world in its 
glory. With the magic of her varied fancy she had 
touched into beauty for him all the commonest 
things. Out of the ruins of the world she had 
built new bowers, and the inspiration of their 
builders had seemed to live again in her. The 
silent pictures spoke to her and told her the mys- 
tery which the painter had breathed into his saints, 
the sculptor into his gods. Had she stood alone in 
Nature, she would have breathed a soul into the 
rocks, such an overflow of life was in her. Her 
inner self was enough for all the rest. 

Audlau felt himself now to be imprisoned be- 
tween cold walls. Sometimes he would be devoured 
by anxiety about Faustine’s own destiny, of which 
he as yet knew nothing. He spent days reading 
over her letters ; the last ones had become restless — 
hurried. He looked for a name that might give 
him some clue. She spoke only casually of strangers 
she had met, among them Mario’s name occurred 
once or twice indifferently. 

“ How miserable she may become,” he thought. 

He was more consumed with torment for her 
future than with dwelling upon his own. He be- 
longed to that type of men of which Mario had 
once spoken to Faustine. 


244 


Countess Obernau.' 


“When the thread of such a one’s destiny is 
cut,” he said, “ no mending it is possible.” 

Audlau’s old world having crumbled, he wanted 
no new one. He stood like a priest, alpne, on the 
ruins of his temple — the palace of his joys was in 
the dust. Why should he want to creep into some 
hut for shelter? Sometimes he was seized with a 
blind rage against her, at her weakness, at her 
inability to resist the impulses of the moment. 
Was it a law of her being? Was her nature one to 
flower but to bear no fruit ? Then, in the midst of 
it all, the thought sprang up in him that she was 
perhaps irresponsible, not willfully cruel. 

“ Who knows,” he thought ; “ I have failed — per- 
haps she is yet to come to some glorious develop- 
ment.” Then again he would think : “ In break- 
ing my life will she not have wrecked her own ?” 

When Faustine had received his letter she be- 
came calmer. Until that moment she lived in a 
perpetual fever. Now she knew she was forever 
separated from the man she used to call her provi- 
dence, who would have refused a throne and any 
triumph he could not have shared with her. Not 
only in the first moments of his love, but through 
months and years of unswerving self-sacrifice, his 
worship had never flagged ; there had been no 
flaws. The first freshness of sentiment had seemed 


Countess Obernau, 


245 


inexhaustible — not through any claim of hers, not 
through any sense of honor, but through the spon- 
taneous impulse of a great devotion. She had 
seemed so to respect his love that she knew his one 
great hope had been to call her all his — in the end. 

She recognized what she was resigning in throw- 
ing away such a love ; but — she threw it away. 

“ I shall never know peace or rest,” she thought, 
and, trying to banish the terrors that beset her, she 
returned to painting and to society. Her friends 
found her colder, less merry, and less at ease. 
They wondered a great deal about her. 

In these days of Mario’s absence Clemens still 
came to see her, and was taking more the allures of 
a friend whom she needed. She was too indifferent 
about him now to ask him not to come. She tried 
in every way to make himself necessary to her. 
As Faustine never spoke of either Audlau or Mario, 
Clemens began to hope they were forgotten. Mario 
wrote daily. His trust in her comforted Faustine. 
Her trust in him was a necessity. 

“ I have nothing else,” she said, now.” 

Mario’s parents were not too delighted with their 
son’s engagement. 

A penniless young girl would have been prefer- 
able,” sighed the Countess Mengen, and his father 
said, somewhat coldly : 


246 


Countess Obernau. 


“She seems to be a Circe, from what we hear. 
Have you allowed yourself to be ensnared, my poor 
Mario?” 

Mario laughed. Faustine’s new character amused 
him. She had always seemed to him far more im- 
prudent than calculating, and he knew a planned 
conquest was an impossibility to her. 

His sisters, however, were quite enchanted. 

“ Oh, I am so glad, Mario,” cried Matilde, almost 
in tears of excitement, while Marie flew to Cuni- 
gunde to tell her the great news. Then Cunigunde 
had to come and repeat all that she knew of the 
lovely Countess Obernau, and all she had already 
told Mario’s sisters. 

Mario was quite touched at the girl’s enthusiasm. 

“ She comforted, helped and supported me when 
all others were against me,” said Cunigunde, with 
a glow in her deep eyes. “ She smiled on me when 
all others frowned and did for me what others would 
only have promised.” She said a great deal more 
of Faustine’s charm, grace and talents. 

“ Is she very beautiful ?” asked Marie. 

“It seems so to me,” said Cunigunde, but one 
never thinks of that with her, one who is too fasci- 
nated to care. I was laughed at once because I 
said she was like the Mddchen aus der Fremde, She 
is the only person who reminds me of her.” 


Countess Obernau. 


247 


Mon DieuC sighed Countess Mengen ; “ how will 
such a wonderful person ever fit into our circle !” 

“ Just like the sunlight into the world, mother,” 
said Mario. 

“ I think it is so interesting, her being a widow 
and having had some sort of a story,” whispered 
Marie, who was romantic, to Matilde. 

“ Hush ! Mario is really seriously in love,” said 
Matilde. “ Oh, yes, awfully.” 

“ Is she as infatuated with you as you seem to be 
with her?” said Mario’s mamma. 

“ Oh, one can’t weigh love,” replied Mario, laugh- 
ing, “ and Faustine’s less than any one’s else. It 
would be clipping its wings.” 

“ Has it wings ! Will it fly away, my son ?” said 
Countess Mengen, with solicitude. “ These bril- 
liant, exceptional women have so rarely the com- 
mon sense, the settled principles which alone give 
happiness in marriage.” 

“ Three months ago, dear mother, I said all this 
to myself about Faustine — I will be perfectly frank 
with you — to-day I love her, and, just as she is, she 
must make me happy.” 

“ And this being so, she will be welcome,” said 
Count Mengen, and he gave his hand to his son. 

Mario pressed it warmly. 

Thank you,” he said. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

Faustine sat at her easel, painting, putting the 
last touches to a masterly picture. Work was the 
only calming potion possible to her, and now Mario 
was so soon to return. She occupied herself in a 
surprise for him. Her painting represented the 
street of an old town. A woman, half in shadow, 
sat in a window ; a man looked up at her as he 
passed in the dimness of the tall houses. A ray of 
sunlight was upon him. 

Clemens entered softly and came to look at the 
scene over her shoulder. 

“ I should be enraptured with that picture,” he 
said, ‘‘ if the man did not so closely resemble Count 
Mengen.” 

“ Count Mengen has such a striking face that it 
clings naturally enough to an artist’s memory,” 
said Faustine. 

[248] 




Countess Ober^iau. 


249 


“ I think a peasant would have been more pic- 
turesque in these surroundings than a coxcomb.” 

Faustine could not help laughing. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Clem- 
ens ; besides, you are prejudiced,” she said, shrug- 
ging her shoulders. 

“ When do you return to Ober-Waldorff she con- 
tinued, impatiently, provoked that Clemens’s words 
had the power to annoy her. 

“ Am I still a bore to you ?” 

“ Sometimes, with your peculiar views and moods,” 
she said, too piqued to care to conceal her rather 
childish petulance. 

“ Have you ever been in Prague,” asked Clemens, 
“ across the Moldau, where they still show the bath- 
room of Queen Libussa?” 

Yes, yes ; but I am talking of Ober-Waldorfr 

“ Do you know what happened in that room ?” 

“ Oh, yes. The queen, proud of her independence, 
would let no man influence her. She determined 
never to know a moment’s weakness — always to 
stay free. Any man on whom her eyes had rested 
with favor for a minute she had imprisoned in this 
chamber, and thrown headlong into the Moldau.” 

“ You are the Queen Libussa of our time. The 
moment a person has ceased to be amusing to you, 
you have them thrown into the Moldau.” 


250 


Countess Obernau. 


‘‘ The young fellow’s words gave her a sense as 
of a cold knife-blade in her heart. 

Perhaps you are right,” she murmured, humbly. 

“ But I shall not allow myself to be drowned in 
the Moldau, or to be hurried back to Ober-Waldorf 
replied Clemens, excitedly. 

“ Oh,” said Faustine, “ I have not played the 
Queen Libussa with you. I never smiled upon you.” 

“ Perhaps you have played it with others,” inter- 
rupted Clemens, bitterly, “ but certainly with me. 
You absorbed me into your life. When such a 
woman as you does this, you must know it becomes 
the whole of a man’s existence — didn’t you know it?” 

“ I have been very patient with you. I have had 
the kindest attentions. What was I to do to make 
myself understood? I have pitied you, Clemens.” 

“ Ah, you pity me !” and he seized her hands and 
wrung them in his own. 

“ Do not change this pity to disgust,” she said, 
freeing herself coldly and haughtily. “ If I were a 
man I would die before my love should be twice 
repulsed.” 

“It is difficult to die when one loves,” said the 
young man, gloomily. 

“Why talk of death? You must live — live for 
better things,” she said, speaking more kindly. 
“ Be a little more reasonable.” 


Cotmtess Obernau, 


251 


Bravissimo ! Countess Faustine, if you preach 
reason to me. No doubt there are plenty of 
treasures in store for me yet,” laughed Clemens, 
scornfully. Then, in a changed tone : “No, I will 
wait — I will wait — into eternity, perhaps — but — 
when the one opportunity is gone — there is death.” 

“ Do whatever you like, but hope nothing from 
me,” she said, wishing to put an end to this unbear- 
able interview. 

She had turned her back to him, and could not 
see his face. After a moment’s pause : 

“ Will you grant me one favor? Will you tell me 
to whom your future belongs ?” 

“ To myself,” she replied firmly. 

“You force me to ask my question in another 
form,” he said calmly. “ To whom do you belong?” 

“ I am not inclined to answer you/’ she replied 
coldly. 

“My God!” he said. “You might well answer 
this little question to one who is going away for- 
ever.” 

“Ah! You are going?” said Faustine, with ill- 
concealed relief. 

“ Yes ; I am going.” 

“Where?” 

“ Where, I do not know ; but when, I can tell you. 
It will be to-morrow.” 


252 


Countess Obernau, 


Faustine breathed more freely. On the next day 
Mario must arrive. She would never be with 
Clemens alone again. 

“Are you satisfied?” he asked her. 

She gave him her hand silently. 

“ It is the first time you have given it to me will- 
ingly,” he said, “ since the first day we met.” 

“ It is not going to be the last time,” she an- 
swered, trying to speak lightly. 

“ Who knows, countess ? And now, even if I 
seem importunate and over-bold, you will not refuse 
to answer the question I put to you just now. It 
is, indeed, the last. I go to morrow. If it is a secret 
to others you can depend on my silence.” 

There was something so solemn and even com- 
manding in his tone that Faustine grew serious. 
She said nothing, but unconsciously her eyes wan- 
dered toward the picture, and rested on the sunlit 
figure that Clemens had recognized as a portrait of 
Mario. He understood her. Their eyes met — hers 
shrank a little. 

“ Why do you look so, Clemens?” 

“ It is nothing,” he said. “ I will come once more 
to say good-by,” and reeling slightly he took up his 
hat and left. 

Faustine threw down her brush — she could 
neither work nor think. She had herself driven 


Countess Obernau, 


253 


later to Madame von Eilan’s. She found a great 
many people there, but no distraction from an un- 
reasoning anxiety. Count Kirchberg drew her 
apart and tried to amuse her. His stories fell like 
lead upon her. 

“ I did not understand,’' she would say, coming 
back as from another world. 

I must be becoming very confused in my ex- 
pressions,” he said, laughing. “You are generally 
quick enough at understanding everything.” 

“ Oh,” she answered, disregarding his persiflage, 
“ when one is troubled everything looks confused 
and crooked — words, people and things. One can’t 
say one’s A, B, C. One treats friends like strangers ; 
one feels as if one were stuck in the mud.” 

She laughed. 

“ Did you ever feel so ?” 

Not waiting for his answer, she continued : 

“When one drives a plow right over a man’s 
heart, is God’s hand there to throw in the good 
seed, count? Do you believe it? If we did not, 
how dreadful to have made the furrow.” 

“ That would be making an easy life for egotists — 
to believe that for every pain they inflict God has 
the ready balsam.” 

Faustine felt cold ; she shivered and grew pale. 
Count Kirchberg asked her if she felt ill. 


254 


Countess Obernau. 


“ I am afraid,” she said, and left the gathering. 

Upon reaching home she asked her servants if 
any one had been inquiring for her during her ab- 
sence. They said no one. Nevertheless she 
looked about her apartments anxiously. Did she 
fear Clemens or hope to see Mario ? She did not 
know. She thought of them together with a sort 
of terror. 

‘‘ Jeannette, I want to go to bed early,” she said 
to her maid. 

Ah, I never heard my lady say that before, and 
yet is there anything on earth so nice as a comfort- 
able, fresh, quiet bed ? I should be more pleased to 
make it up if Madame were more pleased to go 
into it.” 

“Thank God, Jeannette, I am not always 
lazy !” 

Jeannette, who was stolid, went on silently with 
her service. 

Faustine fell soon, as was her wont, into a dream- 
less sleep as peaceful as a child’s. When she awoke 
the next morning she felt as if she had bathed in 
Lethe, and it was some time before the day and its 
troubles made their way where the cool darkness of 
the night had en wrapt her. She was, unlike many 
women, loveliest by day. This is exceptional with 
people who are over sixteen. As persons grow 


Countess Obernau. 


255 


older they require the lights, the dress, excitement 
and movement of the evening to enhance their 
beauty — a factitious beauty. In the morning dreams 
have wearied them more than sleep has refreshed 
them. P'austine rarely had bad dreams, and she 
looked her best on a summer’s morning. To-day it 
was not yet summer, only in her heart — for — Mario 
was to return. She leaned on her balcony. The 
trees, the cloudless sky, the twittering birds im- 
pressed her like some new revelation. Forebodings 
were forgotten. 

Mario,” she whispered, half aloud, and the day’s 
fullness broke upon her. 

In the meantime Earnest announced Herr von 
Waldorf, who had come early to say good-by to her. 
She allowed him to be admitted. Clemens had a 
bewildered air. The misgivings which she had put 
away overcame her once more at his approach. But 
he spoke very quietly. 

“ Next month it will be a year that you came to 
Ober-Waldorf. Do you remember all you told me 
during our walks ?” 

“ Not a syllable, my good Clemens.” 

“ Then I will remind you of one word. You said 
of George of Frundsburg and of several others: 
• They realized that their time was over, therefore 
they died.’ ” 


256 


Countess Obei^nau. 


“ Yes, I remember now. I thought it natural for 
such men." 

“ My time, too, is over, Faustine." 

“You have had no time, child," she said. 

“ I have had hope," he said. 

“ Such hope is a deception," she said. “ A strong 
man does not live on that." 

“ No. When he has proved it was a lie he dies." 

“ What is this rack you are imposing upon me ?" 
asked the young woman, shrinking slightly. The 
beauty of the springtime seemed to be suddenly 
darkened. 

“ Ah, beautiful Queen Libussa ! Is it not right, 
just a little half-hour, for the martyrdom you have 
inflicted upon me all this long year? Come, be 
valiant for a moment — why, a courageous woman 
like you !" 

Then he drew a pistol from his pocket, raised it 
to his temple and — fired. As she stooped in horror 
over him, with a shriek — in the death-cramp his 
hand sought hers. 

The alarmed household was soon upon the scene 
with wails and outcries. 

Through all the tumult a man forced his way 
promptly into the room. The morning light came 
blood-red through the dark hangings. 

“ Why did I leave her ! Why did I leave her T’ 




WE WALKED TOWARD THE OPEN GARDENS.— Page 261 



Countess Obernau. 


257 


he cried, leaning over the fainting form of Fans- 
tine. 

Mario seized her in his strong arms and carried 
her into his carriage. In an hour he was taking 
her to his parents. 



CHAPTER XXX. 


GenitiwS, too, has its burdens," I said aloud to 
myself at the grave of Leopold Robert, in Venice. 

A man who stood near gave me such a keen glance 
that his look arrested my attention. One so rarely 
meets strange eyes with interest. This man had 
been staring at the grave when we arrived, his 
arms folded, his head turned away from us, so that ? 
his head was hardly to be seen, and we had stared : 
at him a little. Travelling is not a good school for ' 
manners. Some indescribable impulse led me to 
speak to him. 

“ 1 suppose you knew Leopold Robert?" I asked 
him. 


[258] 


Countess Obernau. 




“ Only through his pictures,” replied the stranger. 

Against my usual habit, I questioned him again. 

“ Are you, too, an artist ?” 

He smiled. 

Oh, no ; the burden of genius was not laid upon 
me.” 

I flushed. I disliked to have my words repeated. 

“ It is a hard burden,” he continued, “ because 
the world will not recognize it. A gifted being is 
expected to be perfect.” 

“ Yes,” I replied, “ it is unfortunate that natural- 
ness in following one’s bent is always called ex- 
travagance and inconsequence. Columbus was 
treated as a fool ; Galileo as a criminal ; of poor 
Leopold Robert, here, they say, more leniently, that 
he was a hypochondriac.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the stranger, “ sin and madness 
sound harsher.” 

As he spoke I again met his eyes. They seemed 
to cast a shadow upon his fine pale face. Later in 
the day we saw him again. It was in the Church 
of St. Mark. He bowed to us. His quiet manners 
and distinguished appearance led us to recognize 
at once that he was one of our own world. There 
was about him the entire simplicity of good breed- 
ing. He had a child with him — a splendid tur- 
bulent boy of six years — the sort of child one loves 


26 o 


Countess ObernatL 


to see, wild and full of fun and mischief, and with 
such lovely eyes ! They grow tame soon enough. 
Being so alone together, and both dressed in deep 
mourning, one naturally guessed them to be father 
and son. There was, however, no resemblance be- 
tween them, either in feature or in expression. 

“ Is he your son ?” I asked the stranger, later, 
when we stood near each other. 

“You wonder that I have such a beautiful child, “ 
he said, looking at the little fellow with proud eyes. 
“ Yes, he is my son, and looks only like his mother, 
and is like her through and through.” 

Another day we met again, and we breakfasted 
together in the Cafe Florian. The boy frolicked 
on the place outside, chatting Italian to the gon- 
doliers and German to the water-carriers. He wan- 
dered away a little, and his father, growing uneasy, 
went out in search of him under the arcades. We 
could hear his powerful voice calling “ Bonaven- 
tura.” The boy sprang out of the shadow of one 
of the arches and ran to his father, clinging to him 
and hanging upon him with the indescribable grace 
of a little cupid, or of a woman. 

Later, I asked the stranger to tell us his own 
name. 

“ Count Mengen,” he said. 

“ Mario Mengen !” I cried, astonished. 


Countess Obernau. 


261 


Mario Mengen.” 

“ Ah, unhappy, happy one !” I said. 

“ You knew Faustine ?” he asked sadly. 

“ As you know Leopold Robert,” I replied. 

I had come to Dresden some years before, soon 
after the tragic catastrophe of Clemens’s death, and 
this and Faustine’s marriage with Mengen had been 
the general topic of conversation. Since then she 
had roused such enthusiasm in the world of art that 
every one had heard of her. 

Our acquaintance with Count Mengen now ripened 
into one of those intimacies that draw people to- 
gether in a foreign land. We lingered, as he did, 
several weeks in Venice. It was on the eve of our 
departure that, guessing all I longed to ask, he 
opened his whole heart to me. He spoke of Faus- 
tine, and asked me if my interest in her or in him 
was sufficiently great for me to listen to much that 
he would tell me. My heart beat with excitement 
at the thought. I had heard many cruel things 
said of Faustine. She had been to me a very in- 
teresting unknown, clothed in the mists of mys- 
tery. Now, at last, one who really loved and knew 
her would speak of her to me. My breath quickened. 
We walked on the Rive des Esclaves toward the 
open gardens. No spot could be more solitary. 
The Italians prefer to walk in the streets. The 


262 


Countess Obernau, 


garden lies on a point of land which has clear open- 
ings as well as dark alleys shaded by acacia-trees. 
These were in full bloom. The evening air was 
heavy with their perfume. We sat down upon a 
bench. We looked over the lagoons to the beauti- 
ful city, lying between sky and sea, in the gold of 
the sinking sun. O Venice ! 

I held in my hand a bunch of fresh heliotrope. 

“ Their vivifying perfume reminds me of her,” 
he said. Fleur de V amour ! She had such warmth 
and glow. She might have been a great charac- 
ter,” he continued, as if thinking aloud. There 
was but one thing — she was not severe enough to- 
ward herself.” 

After a pause he began to speak again. 

“ After the death of the unfortunate Clemens I 
took her at once to my parents. Three weeks after 
our marriage she was already their beloved child. 
They had dreaded the advent of this woman, this 
sibyl of the far-searching eyes and prophetic lips, 
who was to come with all her arts and sorceries to 
dwell among us. They found her a charming, sim- 
ple girl, with something about her of the ignorances 
and timidities of childhood. She had never known 
this family life ; she had been a lonely child, and 
her first marriage had taught her only suffering. 
Possibly she had never known love, although she 


C ountess Obernau, 


263 


had mightily loved Audlau. In her ignorance she 
had told herself that love must wear no chains— 
not knowing that liberty can only exist within 
limits, and that outside of these lie its dangers. I 
taught her this. I had once said to my friend Fel- 
dern I want tin bonheur foudroyanty nothing less. It 
was mine 

So, gradually finding that I was wrapped in his 
words, he was led to say more and more. 

“ She gave everything inspiration. I never wearied 
of looking at her. Her soul seemed to breathe out 
a mysterious loveliness, and yet she was trans- 
parent as the day. Her eyes were of that uncertain 
gray color which reflect all shades. They grew 
from light to dark in the balancement of feeling. 
Her complexion, too, varied. In her color one 
might divine her mood, as, in the varying shades 
of her eyes, which gave to her blooming face a 
charm of melancholy and of passion. There was a 
rich simplicity in her, something of the primitive 
sweetness of Nature. In her, sunshine lay near to 
the tempest. She had almost fevered impulses, so 
ardent were they, had not the mind calmed and 
balanced them. Oh, how she would rush to meet 
me when, after a long absence, I came back to her ! 
She knew my step in the ante-chamber ; she guessed 
it without hearing it, but she would stop when she 


264 


Countess Obernau, 


approached me and wait for me ; wait that I should 
carry her away in my arms. And her voice ! I 
can hear her now saying : ‘ Mario !’ In its modula- 
tions lay hidden again analogies with Nature. 
When she spoke to me of her half-forgotten child- 
hood her tones were quiet and monotonous, like 
those of the sleepy rills that glide under the tan- 
gled meadow-grass. They did not vibrate, be- 
cause she spoke of a time when her heart had not 
yet spoken. But when she touched upon the an- 
guish of her early married life, there crept into 
them a pathetic cadence, like the rustle of the fall- 
ing leaves. Did you ever, on a hot summer’s noon, 
listen to that strange, breathless fiiitter that pene- 
trates the senses — the faint soughing of a wander- 
ing breeze in the tree-tops, the movement of insect 
wings, the plash of a wave on a distant shore? 
Under the magnetic power of the sun, grass, flower 
and waters all seemed to speak some new-whis- 
pered language unheard, unknown before. Such 
was her voice when she lay in my arms, her soft, 
burning lips close to my face, murmuring the sweet 
and incoherent words which only love understands, 
because love alone invents them. Then, again, 
her tone of jubilee and of rapture rang clear from 
her bosom, like the lark’s morning carol ; or, if 
melancholy remembrance oppressed her, it would 


Countess Obernau. 


265 


sink into the low cooing of doves. Sometimes I 
felt as if all temperaments were blended in hers. 
She could have been as hotly jealous as the Anda- 
lusian girl who hides the little poniard in her 
garter, with which she shall presently punish or 
avenge her lover. Or, again, she could lie dream- 
ing away the hours, with half-closed eyes, like some 
Oriental princess lost in an indolent calm. It was 
hard for her to yield her own will, but she used 
to ask m© to teach her, and I tried to do so, not be- 
cause I wanted her to obey me — her love was all I 
craved — but because I wished her to learn to con- 
trol herself.” 

Mario sighed, and then continued speaking : 

What strange fatality swayed her nature ! 
Striving was her happiness, the moment of attain- 
ment her life. Yet, as her hand grasped what she 
had long for, or closed over it, it seemed to fall 
helpless and allow all to drop from its open palm. 

Soon after our marriage we went to Florence, 
where I was sent as charge d'affaires. Faustine was 
glad to leave Germany ; it held for her too painful 
memories. Yet— I knew she half feared she might 
meet Audlau in Italy. I knew that the thought 
of him lay often heavily upon her. 'I think it 
would be easier for him if he knew I were happy,’ 
she once said to me. She sorrowed over him some- 


266 


Countess Ober^tau. 


times, and I knew it, but she never regretted what 
she had done. Had it not been so I could not have 
lived. 

‘ O God !’ she would say, pacing the floor, ‘ was 
it my fault? Was it my fault? How is it that all 
these floods have gone over me and I am the same ! 
I can still live and love ; I can still believe that 
God breathes divinity into us. I have still illu- 
sions, dreams and hopes.’ So she would talk her- 
self calm again, and more and more seldom came 
these sad paroxysms to disturb our happiness. 

“ Her artistic talent seemed to bloom into re- 
doubled power under the influence of Italian skies. 
She worked with enthusiasm and delight. Bona- 
ventura was born in the first year. Mario has been 
the name of the eldest son in our family for many 
generations, but Faustine pleaded and prayed. 

‘ There can never be but one Mario for me ; I could 
never find happiness in any other. Give him an- 
other name.’ I, of course, yielded to her whim 
while she threw her arms about me. ' Oh, I love 
you !’ she said. She loved Bonaventura, too, but 
differently. 

“ ' I want him to be like me,’ she would say, ‘ that 
he may remind you of me when I am dead. She 
never saw her picture in the child’s — but mine. 
He would be a consolation, she would say.” 



CHAPTER XXXL 

Four years we lived in Florence. Oli, she was 
happy ! Yes, I am sure she was happy ! In those 
moments when the lava in her heart overflowed, 
when we were all in all to each other, when our 
thought was the same and sympathy entire, she 
would say : ‘ Oh, why isn’t life an unbroken chain of 
such moments ! Why isn’t rapture always the 
same ! Why can we not stay at the climax all the 
time !’ 

“ ‘ We should be gods and not men,’ I would 
reply, laughingly. 

“ ‘ I want everlasting rapture,’ she would reply. 

“ ' God has given me this, Faustine, in your love,’ 
I said. ‘ A hundred times I may have been mis- 
taken, a thousand times I may have been in fault — 
in your love alone I have found the eternal. It has 
made me strong and good.* 


[267] 



268 


Countess Obernati. 


“ ‘ Mario/ she cried, throwing herself upon my 
heart with a violence that set my whole being 
vibrating in unison with hers, ‘ Mario, this love is 
my triumph and my vindication. But do you never 
feel that it lifts us up to heaven to-day, but thrusts 
us to-morrow into hell ? Mario, in the moments of 
ecstasy, when our souls rest in each other, when 
we understand each other without words, we are 
as it were in the blueness of heaven ; but there 
come other moments when I have nothing to say 
to you — at least nothing I might not say to any 
other as well. We fall into smaller things. In 
those commonplaces we differ sometimes, and just 
because they are so small, each thinks the other 
might yield. When I want you near me ; when I 
would like you to wander out into the beautiful 
sunshine with me, you have pressing affairs, you 
speak quickly, almost impatient at interruption ; 
or, when I am deeply engaged in my work you 
come to have a talk with me ; we disturb each 
other. Your words are colder, our kiss is quiet. 
You seem indifferent. I feel it, and I think you 
feel it too. Then 1 am unspeakably miserable, 
and neither your voice nor smile has a power to 
charm away dark fears and broodings that paralyze 
and weigh upon me. Then I think if this were 
the right kind of love no such moment could ever 


Gotintess OhernaiL 


269 

come. Oh, I can understand the old Montaigne 
when he says : ‘ II 71 y a de satisfaction id bas qiie 
pour les aTnes ou brut ales ou divines I Mediocre crea- 
tures such as I am can only have it in mediocrity. 
Surely the holy ones in heaven know no weari- 
ness.” 

“ ‘ Well, Faustine,’ I answered, ‘ I, too, can quote 
Novalis : “ As no mortal may lift the veil of Isis, we 
must strive to become immortal.” ’ 

‘ Yes, that we will, and you are already an angel,’ 
she said. 

“ This conversation took place one evening as we 
climbed up toward San Miniato. We stopped to 
rest under the cypresses of the convent of San 
Francisco. I leaned against one of these somber 
trees and looked down on her. She sat on a stone 
step with her folded hands lying in her lap. The 
wind blew about the little locks of hair on her fore- 
head. Her face and dress were illumined by a pink 
glow from the sky. Suddenly she stretched her 
hands out toward me and cried : 

‘ Mario, always to worship — that would bring 
peace.’ 

“‘No human being can merit it from you,’ I said. 

“ ‘ No — but God,’ she replied. 

“ These words were not unnatural, nor did they 
startle me at the time. She turned the subject and 


Countess ObernaU. 


270 


told me I looked like Antonius at that moment. I 
laughingly repudiated such fulsome flattery. 

“ ‘ He died for his king,’ she said, sadly. ' Must 
you, too, die, my love ? I bring misfortune to those 
who love me.’ 

“ ' But not to those you love, Faustine,’ I said, just 
touching her hand. 

“ ‘ Oh, yes, yes,’ she said, with a heavenly, sweet 
sadness. 

“We arose in silence and walked on. Words 
would have jarred upon her then and only aggra- 
vated her mood. Sometimes, with a sudden pang 
of maddest jealousy, I realized that shadows of the 
past still came between us. Who could pluck them 
out ? The present, however, was so much Faustine’s 
tyrant that my jealousy could not be longlived. 
We once spoke of Corinne, and I expressed impa- 
tience with the love story. How could such a splen 
did woman care for that morbid trouble-fete f 

“ ‘ Oh, it was pity, pity, dearest heart ! You men 
don’t understand it.’ 

“ ‘ Perhaps I do not. I don’t think it would lead 
me farther than to let myself be loved. Fancy 
Corinne dying because Oswald didn’t love her any 
more ! It is for the man to die for the woman,’ I 
said. 

“ ‘ Ah, well, love is our element. We are at home 


Countess Obernau. 


271 


where you are strangers. It makes us despotic. We 
should die only when we cease to love. When a 
woman’s heart has ceased to pulsate that is the end. 
To love — that is consecration ! I wonder if an 
inspiration might not come that would raise us 
above human love ? Who knows ? Do you know at 
twenty what you will need at thirty ?’ She spoke 
low, as if to herself. ‘ I had not an opinion, a senti- 
ment or a thought ten years ago that I hold now. I 
suppose it is high good fortune to find at the en- 
trance to life a being we are to walk with through 
life ; but oh, how rare ! Two people can so seldom 
grow and keep pace with each other — one flies faster. 
If we change so — why should love be the clinging 
to one object ?’ 

“‘Is it love or self-love you are speaking of ?’ I 
asked, a little bitterly. 

“ ‘ I was thinking of Vincenza vSonscky,’ she said. 
‘ What a sad story ! vSelf-sacrifice, yet no happiness. 
Her husband alone in old age ; Ohlen alone in his 
youth ; she dying ! Oh, Mario, tell me you are 
happy !’ 

“ Faustine’s art filled much of her time, and she 
was pleased at the immense success some of her 
pictures won at the Milanese Art Exhibition. She 
used to amuse herself, in these days, writing songs. 
They were as subtle and sweet as her own strange 


Countess ObernaU. 


personality. When I told her how much they were 
admired she used to laugh. 

“ ‘ If they are popular they cannot live/ she would 
say. 

“ Yet with all these occupations she seemed to 
me restless at times, and I suggested that we 
should travel — go to the East. One grows so one- 
sided, always at the same place and work. Faus- 
tine hated routine. Every character must have 
the faults of its virtues. 

“ Before starting upon our Oriental trip we re- 
turned to Germany to see our parents and to show 
them Bonaventura. My sisters were now both 
married, and Cunigunde was again engaged. Our 
surprise was unimaginable when she presented her 
fianc^ to us. ‘ Feldern was a hero to this man,’ 
Faustine said to me, apart. She congratulated him 
gracefully, but to Cunigunde she could say nothing. 
The man was a neighbor — stoutish, middle-aged 
and rich. There was little else to say about him. 

“ ‘ She talks of him as if he were an apostle,’ 
Faustine said, later. ‘ What has come over Cuni- 
gunde ’s clear vision !’ 

“ ‘ It is as I told you once, dear angel,’ I replied. 
‘ Perhaps she was afraid of being an old maid. 
They say this fear will make a woman lose all per- 
ception. I suppose the girl has to talk herself into 


Couniess Obernau, 


m 

a sort of fanaticism about the man. Let us hope 
her pride will keep her afterward from acknowl- 
edging that she is not content.’ 

‘ Well, you once warned me that Cunigunde’s 
aspirations must go to the winds, like other peo- 
ple’s,’ said Faustine, half laughing and half crying. 
‘ But Feldern was a gentleman in spite of his little 
priggishness. This man is so ordinary, such a 
sham. Tell me, Mario, are all our aspirations only 
the Fata Morgana of imagination ?’ 

‘ I have grasped mine,’ I said. 

My parents took much pleasure in my wife and 
child. They were proud of Faustine, but she was 
very quiet with them — folding her wings that others 
might not feel they had none.” 




CHAPTER XXXII. 

“We went down the Danube to Constantinople, 
to Greece and Palestine. I can give you no account 
of the voyage, countess ; the remembrance awakens 
too much within me. 

“ ‘ I would like to die here,’ she would say. ' All 
is so beautiful. Oh, Mario, I cannot grow old ! It 
is a horror to me. I want never to know old age. 

I want to feel without being blunted — to work with- 
out fatigue to the end. I would like to die here. It 
would be easier than the hurried life we have left 
behind.’ 

“ It was in the East I reached the culmination of 
my happiness. It was all over after that. Upon 
our return to Florence Faustine’s whole being- 
seemed to change. The sadness that had sometimes 
clouded our days, that I had thought would entirely 
vanish, now became a settled melancholy. She was 
not ill, eccentric or unkind, but the shadow was ' 
[274] 


Countess Obernati, 


275 


there, and there was nothing to say. Is this the 
dowry of genius — that it is a spendthrift of pleasure 
and must end in satiety? I always have felt that 
Faustine had genius. What was this she had 
aspired to beyond ? People would say that she 
made chimeras and troubles for herself because 
destiny had made a spoiled child of her. Yet Faus- 
tine never seemed such a woman to me, and her 
fate is sad because it gives others weapons against 
her. She gradually withdrew into herself. 

“ ‘ I don’t want to travel any more,’ she said. 
‘ People and things are all alike. The outer life can 
be quiet, the inner still aspiring. It might be so in 
a cloister,’ she added, very low. She was never 
impatient, never harsh, but when I implored her to 
again take up her painting or her pen, ‘ What for ?’ 
she would say. ‘ What does it amount to ? A few 
verses, a few pictures that would be forgotten in 
less than a hundred years.’ 

“ A profound discouragement seemed to crush 
her. I grew hurt and pained. I accused her of 
hiding some secret grief from me — of a want of 
confidence. 

“ ‘ Tais toiC she would say, ‘ my time is over. You 
must see it, you must know it. These years, dear 
Mario, were my highest blooming time.’ 

“ ‘ You do not love me any more,’ I cried, in anguish. 


Countess Oiernau, 


^76 

“ 'Mou cher,' she said, with a glance I never saw 
on any face but hers, ‘ did you not awaken love 
within me ? Is not Bonaventura your son ? My 
beloved, I never loved anything but you, after you 
I shall love nothing, but over you — God ! O, my 
angel ! My soul met thine in an ecstasy, that I can 
only live in. We have drunk the depths of the 
golden cup — what is there left, my own ! Per- 
haps — less sweetness — perhaps — the dregs.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Faustine !’ I cried, I know not with what voice, 
for she fell trembling in my arms and said, quite 
softly : 

“ ‘ Ah, if you are angry with me then I cannot 
open my soul to' you.’ 

‘‘ I dared not intimidate her. ‘ Child, what will 
you do ?’ I asked in deathly anxiety. 

“ ‘ Give myself wholly to God ; go into the cloister.’ 

“ ‘ Never ! Never ! Never !’ I cried, clasping her 
close and warm. 

“ She said nothing more then, and I left her. We 
were passing a few weeks at Pisa, where the court 
was for a month. We met Kirchberg here, Faus- 
tine’s old friend. He rode with us every day. One 
day he told me that Audlau was in Italy, and, 
whether purposely or inadvertently, that he was ill, 
and that his physician had sent him in search of 
health. 


Countess Obernau. 


277 


“ Faustine adored the Campo Santo. ' I can think 
there/ she would say ; ' that is enough.’ 

One day she said she would ride there with us, 
and sending back her horse would wait for the 
carriage that was to go for her later. Kirchberg 
and I prolonged our canter for an hour or two. 
Coming home we met the carriage, but it was 
empty. The footman told me Madame la Comtesse 
was not to be found, but that her sketching mate- 
rials had been picked up on the ground in the 
Campo. A vague alarm seized me in spite of Kirch- 
berg’s assurances that she had probably met and 
gone to drive with some acquaintances. Our usual 
dinner hour drew near. I could not quell my 
anxiety, and was just about starting in quest of her 
when her light step sounded on the stairs. In a 
moment she came in. I can see her still — tall and 
pale, in her riding-dress, tottering like a broken 
lily. 

“ ‘ He is here ! He is here !’ she said in a stifled 
voice. ‘ He is dying, and does not wish to see me.’ 

“ Audlau was in Pisa, sick unto death of his old 
wound. The mild air had tempted him to the 
Campo Santo. He had gone there in the care of his 
physician. Faustine had seen and recognized him, 
notwithstanding the ravages of illness. She had 
started forward with a cry, but Audlau had warned 


278 


Countess Obernau. 


her from him with a gesture of horror, and had 
fallen back in a swoon in the arms of his attendant, 
and they had hurriedly taken him home. The 
unhappy woman had followed them. The physician 
had begged her to leave them before he should 
recover consciousness. She had knelt in the hall 
near the door. ^ May I stay here ?’ she had asked. 
After a time Audlau had revived. ' He never asked 
for me,’ she said. ‘ I thought of you, Mario ; of 
your anxiety. I came home.’ 

“ All this she related so incoherently, so trem- 
blingly, that we could hardly understand. Kirch- 
berg went at once to Audlau. 

“ He had known him well once. He promised 
Faiistine to send word as to his condition. At first 
it was always the same. 

“ Faustine paced her room. * I am killing him !’ 
she would say. ‘ Clemens I ruined, body and soul. 
Now I have wrecked another life.’ 

“ Toward midnight Kirchberg came himself with 
a hurried message. ' He cannot live the night,’ he 
said. ^ Come.’ 

“ Kirchberg lifted her into the carriage. He told 
me all afterward. When she went in the death- 
sweat was upon him. She whispered softly : ‘ Max !’ 
He heard her voice, opened his eyes and smiled. 
He trkd to reach her hand, said ' Ini !’ and expired. 


Countess Obernau. 


279 


He had given her every breath of his life, even 
the last. 

The following night we rowed by torchlight, in 
a bark, down the Arno to Livorno, where his re- 
mains were laid in the Protestant cemetery. Faus- 
tine was present. She seemed to seek the suffering 
with a sort of avidity. 

“ ‘ My soul is a desert, Mario,’ she said afterward. 

‘ I have touched the depths of martyrdom. Let me 
go ! Let me go ! God ! There is nothing else !’ 

“ ‘ You are killing yourself,’ I said in my despair. 

* Nor life, nor pain, nor joy, nor sorrow, nor love 
— nothing can fill me any more,’ she said. ‘ I am' 
tired. Let me give up all that once I loved so well, 
and see if some peace will come.’ 

“ In my discouragement I consulted a celebrated 
physician. I persuaded Faustine to talk with him. 

“ ‘ Her mind seems troubled,’ he said, ‘ but there 
is not much amiss. I wouldn’t thwart her much.’ 

“ I then spoke to Father Giralmo, Faustine ’s con- 
fessor. 

“ ‘ It is a vocation, signor,’ he said. 

“ What more have I to tell you?” 

Mario Mengen paused, his face half hidden in the 
gloom. 

“ You know the rest. All the world knows it. A 
§hort titnQ after^ the pope had dissolved her 


28 o 


Countess Obernati. 


riage vows and given her a dispensation to enter 
the novitiate of the Vive Sepolte. Five months 
later she died. Too late she learned that our life, 
like that of Moses, is only to be one glimpse of the 
promised land. Poor, wounded bird, whose wings 
beat forever against the laws of human destiny. 
Rest, tired heart, rest at last !” 

His voice broke. 

“ I have little else to say, countess. My thought 
runs slower than it used to.” 

He laid his hand on his boy’s head. The child, 
weary of play, had fallen fast asleep, long ago, 
upon his father’s knees. I clasped his hand silently, 
and we said : “ Good-by.” 

He walked away toward his gondola with the 
sleeping child still in his arms. 

My companion was to come for me here, and I 
already saw him approaching under the trees. I 
heard the plash of the gondola’s oar. A song, sung 
far away across the lagoons, rose and died on the 
summer’s night. Mengen put off from the shore. 
I have not seen him since. He left Venice the fob 
lowing day. As we wandered away I spoke to my 
companion of Mengen — then of Faustine. “ Ah, 
sublime egotist !” I said. “ Such women are the 
avengers of our sex. Men think at such a fountain 
to drink undying pleasure. All this wealth of 


Countess Obernau. 


281 


beauty and passion promises so much ! How strange 
that it is often given to the narrower and commoner 
minds to recognize the vampire nature which shall 
break first others and then itself. They can weigh, 
they can bargain, they can calculate. To them is 
given a way of escape. Only the best give them- 
selves.” 


THE END. 


An Exquisite Novel. 


APPASSIONATA. 

A MUSICIAN’S STORY. 

BY 

ELSA D’ESTERRE'KEELING, 

Atithor of '•^In Thoitghtland and Dr'’ainlandf etc.y etc, 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAGAN. 

12mo. 280 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ Appassionata ” is the story of a girl endowed with extraordi- 
nary genius and a passion for music. Her history is most roman- 
tic and interesting. Her love and her genius lead to strange 
situations. The novel is one which will interest all lovers of 
music, as they will appreciate the difficulties and emotions which 
sway the heroine. The illustrations of this novel by Mr. Fagan 
are extremely good, and the book is daintily bound. It is one of 
the prettiest books of the season. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Qqr. WlbLlAM AND STKEETS^ NEW YQM? 


A New Translation from Balzac. 


LOVE 

(L’ Envers de V Histoire Contemporaine.) 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

HONORE DE BALZAC. 

TRANSLATED BY 

FRANCIS H. SHEPPARD, U. S. N. 

WITIf ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 

12iuo. 800 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is an admirable translation of one of the most refined and 
spiritual books in any language. It deals with love, but that great 
passion is embodied in the souls of men and women who suffered 
the great trials and afflictions which overtook the victims of the 
first French Revolution. The principal characters belong to the 
old aristocracy of France, who escaped only with their lives, to 
enact the role of ministers of charity in the very place where had 
stood the guillotine, and to the people who had clamored for their 
blood. This novel should be read in connection with The 
Country Doctor,” as it is written on the same general lines, al- 
though it reaches a greater moral altitude, and portrays more in- 
tense and tragic circumstances. No one can possibly understand 
Balzac without reading this story. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Coi^. William and Spruce Streets^ New Yorf- 


A German Detective Novel. 


THE TELL-TALE WATCH 

(Der Lebende hat Recht.) 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

GEORGE HOCKER 


BY 

META DE VERE. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAGAN. 


12mo. 350 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This story is based upon a thrilling tragedy in real life, which 
created a sensation in Germany, and which in the form of a novel 
is equally thrilling and interesting. German novels are usually 
quiet and domestic, and while interesting and charming, are sel- 
dom exciting or dramatic. “ The Tell-Tale Watch ” is both, and 
will satisfy the taste for a mystery which, in the beginning, seems 
almost unfathomable. It is a strange story with an original plot, 
and one which will cause difference of opinion, as the sympathy 
of the reader is excited in favor of one character or another. It 
is not a story which any one who reads will consider dull. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


An Entertaining Book. 


A PRIESTESS OF COMEDY. 

• (COMODIE.) 


BY 

NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH. 

Translated from the German by Elise L. Lathrop. 
ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAYI8. 


12mo. 312 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This splendid novel first appeared in this country in the original 
German in the New York Staats-Zeitung, The publication in 
English is by arrangement with the Staats-Zeitung. It is a novel 
of unusual excellence, conforming to the best models of literary 
art, full of tragic interest, lightened by strokes of pure comedy, 
and abounding in admirable sketches of modern society. No re- 
cent novel has appeared in Germany which has attracted more 
interest and favorable comment from the best judges. The title 
is thoroughly descriptive of the book. The heroine is an original 
and interesting character. -.The author is one of the most popular 
German novelists. The story is beautifully illustrated by Mr. 
Warren B. Davis, and it is issued in cloth and paper covers, uni- 
form with “Miss Mischief,” by Heimburg. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, . 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


An Interesting Novel. 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 

21 JCoBcl. 


BY 

PAUL H. GERRARD. 


ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVI& 


12x00, 814 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $ 1 . 00 . 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


A Sleep-Walker ” is a novel of incident. As the title indicates, 
complications arise from the doings of a fair somnambulist. In 
the opening a mysterious woman is discovered in the act of throw- 
ing a child into a reservoir. The fate of the child and the iden- 
tity of the woman are matters upon which the plot of the story 
turns. Much is involved, and a large number of persons inter- 
ested, and a series oi events transpire, all of which go to form a 
dramatic story ot most sensational interest. The story is pub- 
lished simultaneously in England and this country and is well 
calculated to please readers in both countries. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel by the Author of <‘A Priestess 
of Comedy.” 


COUNTESS DYNAR; 

. OR, 

POLISH BLOOD. 


BY 

NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of A Priestess of Comedy f A Princess of the Stage f 

etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAGAN. 


12mo. 867 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Nataly von Eschstruth’s novels are full of romantic sentiment 
that takes one completely out of the ordinary atmosphere and 
situations of common life. There are a swing to her style, a con- 
tagious enthusiasm and extravagance in her descriptions and a 
freshness in the emotions and passions of her characters, which 
command the attention, excite the feelings and absorb the in- 
terest of every reader. All who have read the “Priestess of 
Comedy” will appreciate the truth of what we say. “Countess 
Dynar ” is a book of most unusual beauty. The illustrations are 
admirably illustrative of the scenes and characters. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Mrs. Southwarth*s Beat Novels. 


ONLY A GIRL’S HEART, 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 

Being “Only a Girl’s Heart,” Second Series. 


GERTRUDE HADDON, 

Being “ Only a Girl’s Heart,” Third Series. 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 


ALL THREE ILLUSTRATED BY HUGH M. EATON. 

12mo. Handsomely Boiiud in Cloth. Price, $1.00 each. Paper 
Cover, 50 Cents. 


The three novels above named are all connected by a thread 
of story and deal with the same characters. The series reads 
continuously and is essentially one novel, although each book 
forms more or less a distinct narrative. The interest of the first 
novel is carried forward with increasing power until the close of 
the third. Few authors, living or dead, have swayed so wide an 
influence or held readers with a more sovereign power than this 
delightful novelist. Many readers are gratified to meet their old 
acquaintances in the successive books of a favorite author. F. 
Marion Crawford owes a great deal of his popularity to the 
Roman family of the Saracinesca, whose fortunes in succeeding 
generations are told in his novels. So this series by Mrs. South- 
worth will furnish a whole winter’s reading to her admirers, and 
all about the same people. The illustrations of these novels add 
very much to their beauty and interest. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor, William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY 


1 -IIE« DOlIBJiE EIFE. By Mrs. Har- 
riet Lewis, Cloth, $1.00; paper, oOcts. 

2. — UNKNOWN. By Mrs. SouthworUi. 
Cloth, $1.00 : paper, 50 cts. 

«.-THE GUN3IAKER OF IHOSCOW. By 
Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
25 cts. 

4. — JIAUO 3IORTON. By Major A. K. 

Calhoun. Cloth, $1,00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

5. -THE HIDDEN HAND. By Mrs. 

Southworth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

6. -SUNDERED HEARTS. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

L-THE STONE-CUTTER OF LISBON. 
By Win. Henry Peck. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

8. — LADV KILDARE. By Mrs. Harriet 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

9. — CRIS ROCK. By Captain Mayue Reid. 

Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

10. -NEAREST AND DEAREST. By Mrs. 

Southworth. Cloth, $1,00; paper, 50 cts. 

11. -THE BAILIFF’S SCHEME. By Mrs. 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

12. -A LEAP IN THE DARK. By Mrs. 

Southworth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

13. -HENRY 31. STANLEY. By H. F. Red- 

dall. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

14. -THE OLD LIFE’S SHADOWS. By 

Mrs. Lewis. Cloth, $1.00: paper, 50 cts. 

15. -A .UAD BETROTHAI.. By LauraJean 

Libbey. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 
lO.-TIIE LOST LADY OF LONE. By Mrs. 
Southworth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, oO cts. 

17. — lONE. By Laura Jean Libbey. Cloth, 

$1.00 ; paper 50 cts. 

18. - FOR WO H AN’S LOVE. By Mrs. E. H. 

E. N. Southworth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts 

19. -CESa‘r BIROTTEAU. ByHonoreDe 

Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

20. -- THE BARONESS BLANK. By 

Niemann. Cloth, $1,00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

21. — PARTED BY FATE. By Laura Jean 

Libbey, Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

22. -THE FORSAKEN INN. Bv Anna 

Katharine Gteen. Cloth, $1,50; paper, 
50 cts. 

23. -OTTILIE ASTER’S SILENCE. 

Translated from the German. Cloth, 
$1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

24. -EDDA’S BIRTHRIGHT. ByMrs.Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

25. — THE AliCHEVIlST. From the French 

of Honore De Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts. 

2G.-UNDER OATH. -All Adirondack 
Story. By Jean Kate Ludluni. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

27. — COUSIN PONS. From the French of 

Honore De Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts. 

28. -THE UNLOVED WIFE. ByMrs.E.D. 

E. N. Southworth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts 

29. -liILlTH. By Mrs, E. D. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth', $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 
.30.-REUNITED. Bv A Popular Southern 
Author. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 
81.-3IRS. HAROLD STAGG. By Robert 
Grant. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

32. -THE BREACH OF CUSTOM. From 

the German. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 60 cts. 

33. -THE NORTHERN LiGTIT. Trans- 

lated from the German of E. Werner. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

34. -BERYL’S HUSBAND. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 60 cts. 

35. — A LOVE MATCH. By Sylvanus 

Cobb, Jr. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 eta. 


36. -A MATTER OF 3IILLIONS. By Anna 

Katharine Green. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 
50 cts. 

37. -EUGENIE GRANDET. By Honore 

De Balzac. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

38. -THE IMPROVISATOR E. Translated 

from the Danish of Hans Christian 
Andersen. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

39. -PAOLI, THE WARRIOR BISHOP, 

or The Fall of the Christians. By W. 
C. Kitchin. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

40. - UNDER A CLOUD. By Jean Kate 

Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

41. — WIFE AND V’* <)3IAN, Translated 

from the German by Mary J. Salibrd. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

42. -AN INSIGNIFICANT W03IAN. 

Translated from the German of W. 
Heimburg. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50ct.s. 

43. — THE CARLETONS. By Robert Grant. 

Cloth, $1.00 ; paimr, 50 cts. 

44. — 31 A D E 31 O ISE LI.E DESROCHES. 

Translated from the French of Andre 
Theuriet. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

45. — THE BEADS OF TAS3IER. By 

Amelia E. Barr. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 
50 cts. 

46. -JOHN WINTHROP’S DEFEAT. By 

Jean K. Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50c. 

47. -L1TTLE HEATHER - BI.(fsS03I. 

Translated from the German, by Mary J. 
Salford. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

48. -GI.ORIA. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

49. — DAVID IjINDSAY. A Sequel to Gloria. 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 60 cts. 

50. -TIIE LITTLE COUNTESS. Tran.s- 

lated from the German by S. E. Bogg.s. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

51. -THE CIIAUTAUQUANS. By John 

Habberton. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50 cts. 

52. -THE TWO HUSBANDS. By Mrs. 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper 50 cts. 

53. -31RS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES. 

By Amelia E. Barr. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 
50 cts. 

54. - WE PARTED AT THE AI.TAR. By 

Laura Jean Libbey. Cloth. $1.00; paper, 
50 cts 

55. -WAS SIIE WIFE OR WIDOW? By 

Malcolm Bell. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

56. -TIIE COUNTRY DOCTOR. By Hou- 

ore De Balzac. Cloth, $1 .00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

57. -FLORABEL’S LOVER, or Rival 

Belles. By Laura Jean Libbey. Cloth, 
$1.00; paper, 60 cts. 

58. -IiIDA CA3IPBELIi. By Jean Kate 

Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00 ; patter, 50 cts. 

59. -EDITH TREVOR’S SECRET. By 

Mrs. Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

60. — CECIL ROSSE. A Sequel to Edith 

Trevor’s Secret. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

61. -LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. Translated 

from the German, by Mary J. Safforri. 
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

62. -TRUE DAUGHTER OF HARTEN- 

STEIN. From the German, by Mary J. 
Safford. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

63. -ZINA’S AWAKING. By Mrs. J. Kent 

Spender. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 60 cts. 

64. -]m)RRIS JULIAN’S mFE. By EUza- 

beth Olmis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

65. — DEAR ELSIE. Translatenfrom the Ger- 

man, by Mary J. Saflford. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

66. -THE HUNGARIAN GIRL. Trans- 

lated from the German by S. E. Boggs. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

67. -BEATRIX ROHAN. By Mrs. Harriet 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY— Continued. 

EVERY NUMBER BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED. 


68. — A SON OF OliO HARRY. By Albion 

W, Tourgee. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50; 
paper, 50 cts. 

69. — RO.>lAiNCE OF TROLVIETiE. By 

Brehat. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. 

70. -EIFE OF (iENERAE JACKSON. By 

Oliver Dyer. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

71. -TilE RETURN OF THE O’MAHON Y. 

By Harold Frederic. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.50 ; paper, 50 cts. 

72. -REUBEN FOREMAN, THE VIE- 

1.AGE BLACKSMITH. By Barley 
Dale. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. 

73. -NEVA’S THREE COVERS. By Mrs. 

Harriet Lewis. Illustrated. Cloth, .t 1.00 ; 
paper, 50 cts. 

74. —“ EM.” By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

75. -EM’S HUSBAND A Sequel to “ Em.” 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 60 cts. 

76. — THE HAUNTED HUSBAND. By 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

77. -THE SIBERIAN EX ICES. By Col. 

Thomas W. Knox. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$2.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

78. -THE SPANISH TREASURE. By 

Elizabeth C. Winter. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

79. -THE KINH OF HONEY TSCAND. By 

Maurice Thompson. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.50; paper, 60 cts. 

80. -TUE MATE OF THE “EASTER 

BECC,” and Other Stories. By Mrs. 
Amelia E. Barr. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.25 ; paper, 50 cts. 

81. -THE CHICD OF THE PARISH. By 

Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

82. -MI.SS MISCHIEF. By W. Heimburg. 

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.60 ; paper, 50 cts. 

83. -THE HONOR OF A HEART. Trans- 

lated from the German by Mary J. Safford. 
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

84. -TRANSGRESSIN(4 THE CAW. By 

Capt. Frederick Whittaker. Illustrateu. 
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 60c. 

85. -HEARTS AND COBONETS. By Jane 

G, Fuller. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

86. -TRESSICIAN COURT. By Mrs Har- 

riet Lewis. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

87. -GUY TRESSICIAN’S FATE. A Se- 

quel to “Tressilian Court.” By Mrs. 
Harriet Lewl.s. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 


88. -MYNHEER JOE. By St. George Rath- 

borne. Illu.stratetl. Cloth, $1.00; paper,! 
60 cts. I 

89. — THE FROl.ER CASE. Translated, 

from the French by H. O. Cooke. Illus-i 
trated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

90. -A PRIESTESS OF CttMEDY. Trans- 

lated from the German by Elise L. T..a- 
throp. Illustrated, cloth, $1.26; paper, 
50 cts. 

91. — Al.C OR NOTHING. Translated from 

the Russian by Mela De Vere. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, .$1.25 ; paper, 50 cts. 

92. -A SKECETON IN THE CCOSET. 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

93. — BRANDON CO VINE’S WIFE. A Se- 

<iuel to “A Skeleton in the Cicf^et.” 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, $1.0C ; paper, 50 cts. 

94. — LOVE. (L’ Envers ile I’ Histoire Coii- 

teinporaine.) By Honore de Balzac. 
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

95. -THE TELL-TAEE WATCH. From 

the German by Meta De Vere. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 60 cts. 

96. -HETTY ; OR, THE OLD GRUDGE, i 

By J. H. Connelly. Illustrated. Cloth, ! 
$1.00; paper, 60 cts. 

97. -GIRLS OF A FEATHER. By Mrs. 

Amelia E. Barr. Iliustrated. Cloth, $1.25; 
paper, 50 cts. 

98. — APPASSIONATA. A Musicinii’s Story. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. lllustrateil. 
Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 60 cts. 

99. -ONEY A GI Rl/S HEART. By Mrs. E. 

D. E. N. Southworth. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

100. -THE REJECTED BRIDE. “Only a 

Girl’s Heart ’’—Second Series. By Mrs. 

E. D. E. N. Southworth. Illustrated. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

101. -GERl RUDE HADDON. “Only a 

Girl’s Heart”— Third Series. By Mrs. E. 
D. E. N. Southworth. Illustrated. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. il 

102. -COUNTESS DYNAR, or Polifih^ 

Blood. By Nataly Von Eschstruth. Ulus- ^ 
trated. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 60 cts. 

103. - A SLEEP-WALKER. By Paul H. 

Gerrard. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. 

104. — A LOVER FROM ACROSS THE 

SEA and other stories. By E. Werner. 
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

105. — A PRINCESS OF THE STAGE. By 

Nataly Von Eschstruth. Illustrateu. 
Cloth, $1.26 ; paper, 50 cts. 


For sale by all Bookse 
on receipt of price by 




alers, or sent postpaid 


ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 


PUBLISHERS, 


,Cor. William and Spruce Streets, 


New York City. 







^ 0 ^ ^ A 


AN «<. 

^ K 


WW/Zh ^ ^ Y/ 

- O A S o 

^'O <0^ Y ^ 0 A 

H c ° ^'o * * '0^ «1 '■ ' * -? Yp A' c, 

* •:^. ^ <^Mt|-S!k' i * ■•^, v-i' ' 

= ' •>'o o' . > 

^5*’° ^°-<- -^cf- 

‘”’o'^° -„A. •■■'• v'^ »-0, o 


A'^ 


X 

> 




« 

>• 





^ y 

x* ' « , V , .A / 

%A ' .-i.'^ .C»“‘».A? 
C^ : V^' 

o 

■*’ ' (fr 

A C' L. 

"A v.„ *•' 

■iP\.^l °',% V 

-p - ^sauMi^ J .■= 

CH ✓ ^^iSut'»m^ v tv 

^ 

iJ r- * A 4 ^ \ \ H t 

^ -P . «' ' « A- 



^.Ao 


\.., ^- *=.k»’Ao- 

N ^ ' /y ^ ,0^ ^ N «r 0 ^ 






AV 'J- / V- V 

« ♦'■^#>1.'' f^f. x\- ' 

'^'’ “ Z ^ 't A 

Pi ' =. .\> ^ - -. JX ■/ 

^ o 

,> H5! e>' -4 ’■^ ^ v’ ^ ''n- ' ^ ' -A 

<r <1, Ar ^ ''o»ii'^ A 

« <P A'i'^ C ° -P '^O ‘ ^‘^V^ C ' 

^ 't . - A * ^ Cr A ^ v"^ ■* os:*?: 

" V ^ V 




1 A 




A"' s- 'C‘ 

ac* r k? ^ ^ 


OA V* — ..,,vx 

«S \a ^ *■ ^ y-» 

8 1 N -» \V , , , . .0 M 0 ^ 

\- ^ A ^ o. 








^ T 


f o 


7 - 


« 1 ^ 

> <X> ^ 

•'^ .. ^ ^.0 ^ 0 -’ 

v ' ZJ'' ^ Jy 

/» 

: ^ V 


'A^ 

■/ 


*v 

v\V <p 

‘V ^ 

' ^ v'^ ^ 

^ ^ rrrr^^V* ^ ^ ^ %l^ ^t: . ~ • ,v , 

^ M^n! // /Z2^ i" ->^ 

\ .* *7 


A 


l'^^' ' 1 


a' . c “ “ '• * ''o 

♦ ^ 1> '^S^v 

J' 

• : 


"o 


V k'' 

■>*>■■><) '■ 

/h\ •^•^..^ - 


: ^ V 


'p 

^ -n^- v^ 

J}’ 


y^'^oNO^ .V 7 ' 

^/ > ^ '> * 0 , 

^ i. 




■% cZ^ * 
V* ^ ® 


^ " \\* </> 
y ^ A^' 


JV rt 


=.^%, 



0 007 382 317 1 














